


Danger Nights

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case-fic (sort of), Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, First Time, Folklore, Friends to Lovers, Hay-on-Wye, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Parentlock (mentioned), Pining, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock’s Birthday, TFP Does Not Exist, Wales, Winter, spooky elements, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28555590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: According to folklore, the nights between Christmas and Twelfth Night are the most dangerous of the year. During them, the Wild Hunt rides, and ghosts and demons come out to haunt unsuspecting and misbehaving folk. An investigation of a series of strange occurrences leads John and Sherlock to Hay-on-Wye on the Welsh Marches, to face ghosts weird and ancient as well as close and personal – and perhaps to start the new year on a more hopeful note than the previous one.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 98
Kudos: 191
Collections: Happy Birthday Sherlock Holmes - 6/1/2021, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Опасные ночи (Danger Nights)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767249) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> The idea for this fic came to me during a conversation with my sister about Christmas and New Year’s traditions in different parts of Europe. It was originally intended to be a one shot around 10k but grew into a longer story – which, unusually for me, is completely written. Chapters will be posted daily from 4th January until Sherlock’s birthday on the 6th (hope I’ll get the illustrations done in time ...). This story is independent of my other series.
> 
> A big thank you, as always, goes to my brilliant beta rifleman_s.

“Should have known that there’d be no signal around here,” mutters John. Sherlock casts a quick glance at his friend in the passenger seat, his face illuminated from below by the cold glow from his mobile phone. Dusk has fallen. Outside the car windows, dark trees and hedgerows rush past, opening occasionally to allow views of a wintry landscape of meadows dotted with ghostly grey sheep, hedges and copses of woodland interspersed with lights glinting in houses and small villages, the occasional brightly lit Christmas tree next to a solitary farm, and the dark hills of the Brecon Beacons half-shrouded in cloud with here and there patches of snow remaining. The heavy rains of the past days have stopped for now, having eaten away what there was in terms of snow in most places – and probably destroying most traces of the ... occurrences John and Sherlock have been asked to investigate in this remote area between England and Wales. The wind is still strong, though, blowing steadily from the west, chasing clouds and brown leaves across the countryside, tearing off twigs and branches and occasionally even rocking the car with a howling gust.

“I wanted to call your parents again to make sure they read Rosie the right bedtime story from the right book,” goes on John. “She’s quite particular at the moment, as well you know.”

Sherlock smiles softly. Yes, he knows. Even though officially, John and Rosie still live at the house in Ealing John and Mary had rented together, over the past year, ever since the conviction of Culverton Smith, they’ve gradually spent more and more time at Baker Street, to both Sherlock’s and Mrs. Hudson’s delight. John returned to working at Sarah Sawyer’s surgery which is closer to 221B, but without any intention of rekindling their relationship. Sarah is about to get married to her girlfriend, anyway, the realisation of which brought on some introspection in John that has been interesting to watch. Sherlock is convinced by now that John, like Sarah, is bisexual, only that unlike her, who embraced it wholeheartedly, he is still not ready to accept this part of himself.

And Sherlock, who is relieved to finally have John in his life again (with the bonus of Rosie – an unexpected, initially dreaded but ultimately beloved addition) is careful not to rock the boat. John has been working on his anger and other issues, attending therapy regularly and trying to be more communicative about things that bother him. They talk more, he and Sherlock, but it’s mostly about Rosie, whom they have truly bonded over. Personal things, _really_ personal, are still out of bounds, and probably will remain so. They’re just not like that, John and he, talking about _feelings_ and all those pesky interpersonal things.

Sherlock is glad they are friends again at last, and even though, when he is really honest with himself, he wants more, he is not sure John does. Sherlock has vowed to respect this wish. He, too, has endured therapy on John’s suggestion and insistence after his initial contacting of Ella during the time immediately following Mary’s death, when John and he weren’t even on speaking terms. Sherlock’s sessions were mostly conducted to deal with the psychological aspects of his drug withdrawal (more severe than he wanted to admit, mostly to himself), but also PSTD stemming from his capture and torture in Serbia (of which John knows now – he has even seen the scars). They went together a few times to sort through what happened at Smith’s morgue and what led to things escalating the way they did. Sherlock loathes to admit it, but Ella has been very helpful at steering them through years of suppressed guilt, anger, resentment and self-loathing to a point when under tears, John apologised for hurting Sherlock, and Sherlock, equally misty-eyed, understanding and accepting that he didn’t deserve to be hurt because of the grief he had caused John earlier.

Still, even in these sessions, the most basic, fundamental issue between them hasn’t been addressed yet. Sherlock has told Ella that he is in love with John. Whether John has made a similar statement which she withholds from Sherlock because of patient confidentiality, or whether John really doesn’t feel this way, Sherlock doesn’t know. He commends Ella for steering clear of this issue during their joint sessions for the time being. Perhaps this year, which only began three days ago, both John and Sherlock will be ready to take on what has been simmering between them ever since “Here, take mine” almost a decade ago at Barts. Sherlock has made his peace with being in love with John, and almost with it being unrequited apart from a deep, abiding friendship and indeed love. John does love him, he knows that. As a friend – best friend – partner in crime-solving, co-parent. John hasn’t even considered dating ever since Mary died. He confessed his texting ‘affair’ to Ella and Sherlock but has since deleted the woman’s number and hasn’t made any efforts to attract new female company, not even for no-strings-attached sex. While formerly, such ‘dry spells’, as John would call them, invariably led to John being antsy and out of sorts, Sherlock hasn’t detected any of these emotions in recent months. John seems ... calmer, more content, more thoughtful. He laughs and smiles more. His face has lost the pinched look because he’s eating more and healthier. Sherlock, too, has gained weight. Even though John and Rosie rarely spend nights at Baker Street, they do come by now almost every day, and they have regular meals together, and regular hours to give the two-year-old the structure she apparently needs. Sherlock never thought he’d be one for rituals. For many years, his life was without any. Things changed when John moved in, but not to the same extent as now. Most days, it’s almost like they’re a ‘proper’ family, whatever that means.

Sometimes, in his weaker moments, Sherlock catches himself imagining what it would be like if John truly committed to a relationship with him – other than the platonic, almost co-habiting and certainly co-parenting one they already entertain. Sherlock is Rosie’s legal guardian now, almost a parent, something he never expected to be. Not that Sherlock has a clear notion what a romantic or even sexual relationship with John would be like as he’s never had anything of the sort, his brief pretended ‘fling’ with Janine aside. He isn’t entirely sure about the whole sex thing yet. The concept is so ... weird. He does love John, and it has come as a surprise to find that he doesn’t mind physical closeness and touching as much as he thought he would – and which he does mind from most other people. It’s different with John. And if John wanted to engage in romance and more touching and all that, Sherlock knows he would be open to experimentation to stake out and probably extend the borders of his comfort zone.

“I have left them a list with detailed instructions,” he says, smiling, “as well as bookmarks in those of the books we brought. Stop worrying, John. She has stayed with other people before, even over night, and since we’ve spent the past four days and three nights at my parents’ cottage, and she didn’t even make a fuss the first night – despite that being New Year’s Eve – I have no doubts that she will be fine now. You know how my parents dote on her – even Mycroft does, in his way. They will be fine.”

John laughs softly, his eyes following a brightly decorated house with a glowing polar bear in the front garden as they pass by. The past few days out of London have been good for him. For Rosie, too, who doesn’t have any grandparents apart from a honorary granny in Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock’s parents have welcomed her (and John) with open arms and less fuss than Sherlock anticipated (and dreaded).

“Sherlock is her legal guardian now, which is wonderful,” his mother had said. “So we might as well be her grandparents. It’s not that we’ll ever have any grandchildren from our own dear sons here,” she added with an arch glance at Sherlock and Mycroft who only rolled his eyes. Later, Mycroft had invited Sherlock for a stroll through the garden. Sherlock had warily agreed hoping for a stealthy cigarette but had been disappointed. Mycroft only offered a nicotine gum, which he declined. To his surprise and slight disgust, Mycroft had gone all sentimental then, thanking him for bringing John and especially Rosie who so delighted their parents who were getting on and blah, blah, blah. Sherlock had zoned out at some point, but unfortunately, the sentiment had contaminated him as well. Yes, their parents _were_ getting on. Both were past seventy, still fairly fit, luckily – for now – but terribly set in their ways. Sherlock had to concede Mycroft a point: looking after a young, lively, inquisitive child such as Rosie seemed to rejuvenate them more than any spa treatment, yoga or additional vitamins would.

John lets out a sigh. “Yes, I suppose they will. Actually, I’m impressed with how well they’ve been handling even Rosie’s more taxing moods. Especially your dad who is so patient with her. She even ate sprouts for him. But then, they have experience with kids – although I’m convinced your brother was born an adult.”

Sherlock laughs. “Yes, he probably was.”

John grins. “It was quite a revelation staying at your old room. Didn’t get a chance to see it last time.”

Sherlock understands that ‘last time’ refers to the strange reconciliation with pregnant Mary before the whole Magnussen business. No, they didn’t even stay long enough for dinner that day, and instead of sleeping in his old bed, Sherlock spent the night in solitary confinement in some godforsaken penitentiary, about to be shipped to Serbia to do his duty for Queen and Country and then expire and stop bothering people.

“When Rosie is a little older, she can have my old chemistry set.”

“When she is _much_ older and has had proper instruction, Sherlock. Not sure I could cope with two people trying to blow up the flat instead of just you.”

“I haven’t really undertaken any dangerous experiments since you and Rosie have become regulars at Baker Street again.”

“That’s true.”

They sit in silence for a while. Sherlock fights the urge to voice a certain invitation again. He has mentioned it before, but never received a definite answer. From the corner of his eye, he notices John stealing glances at him while fiddling with the mobile phone in his hands. Eventually, John draws a deep breath. “I have thought about it, you know.”

Sherlock doesn’t dare glance at him, his heart racing suddenly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the dark, winding road, his hands gripping the steering wheel with more force than necessary. He swallows, hoping that John won’t notice how nervous he is. He hears John swallow.

“It’s not that don’t want to come back. Move in permanently, you know. You’ve been ... you’ve been so good with Rosie. I never expected you to be so patient with another human being. Sometimes, I think you’re a more responsible parent than I.”

More fiddling. It’d get on Sherlock’s nerves, were he not a bundle of those already. “What’s holding you back, then?” he manages to ask, horrified at how hoarse his voice sounds.

John huffs out a laugh. Still staring firmly at the road ahead, Sherlock imagines John gazing at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “Logistics, for one. Rosie will need her own room, as she has at the house we live in now. Sharing with her for a few nights like I’ve done at your parents is all right, but it wouldn’t work when she gets older. And there are only two bedrooms at the flat, unless we renovate 221C down— fuck, watch out, Sherlock!”

Alarmed by John’s cry and spotting the danger just in time, Sherlock steps onto the brakes, and tearing on the wheel, steers the car around a pack of wild boars that has broken out of the hedges to the left side of the road and is rushing across it in wild panic as though chased by hellhounds. The car lurches, the brakes squealing. For a moment Sherlock doubts they’re going to make it, that they’re going to hit either one of the animals or the dense hedge on the other side of the road. But miraculously, he keeps the car under just enough control to avoid both collisions and to steady its course to return to and stay in the correct lane and slow down so that they roll to a halt when the hedge retreats and the road widens to a muddy hard shoulder for a few yards.

Both of them are breathing hard. Sherlock’s hands are still grasping the steering wheel so tightly that only after the light touch of John’s trembling hand he notices and begins to relax them and turn off the engine. “You okay?” enquires John, his voice quivering.

Sherlock nods shakily. “You?”

John laughs hoarsely. “Bit shaken, but yeah. What the hell was that? They came out of nowhere, and so many.”

Both men turn in their seats to catch a glimpse of the pack. Most of them have vanished through a gap in the hedge, apparently, but some stragglers are still leaping across the road.

“There are deer, too,” muses Sherlock.

“Yeah, and I think I spotted a fox and two badgers.” John frowns. “Never seen a wild badger before, come to think of it. Didn’t know they were that large.” He gazes at Sherlock, his frown deepening. “What were all those animals doing together? That’s not normal, is it?” ~~~~

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “I’m not an expert on wildlife, but no, it isn’t. They were crazed with fear, as if someone or something was chasing them.”

“Isn’t fox hunting banned in these parts?”

“Yes, officially it is. But I wouldn’t put it beyond some rich landowners not to adhere to this ban. Also, given what Mummy’s friend and Hereford Police told us about the strange events that have troubled this area for the past week or so, I hazard something else is afoot here. After all, that’s why we’re here, aren’t we?”

John laughs softly. “Yes, true. Could have done with a less spectacular welcoming committee, though. Is the car all right? Guess your dad won’t appreciate it if you trashed it.”

“Well, he insisted we take it.”

“And wisely so. Unlike mine, it has a four-wheel drive and, more importantly, proper winter tyres. I think with mine and my summer tyres, we would have crashed on this wet, slick road. Good reaction, by the way.” He runs a hand through his hair, then grins and winks at Sherlock. “You know, back when we went to Dartmoor and you drove that Jeep, I was shocked you knew how to and even had a licence. How on earth did you manage to get that? I really can’t imagine you enduring regular driving lessons.”

Sherlock smiles at well. Their gentle bickering calms him. “Once again, you underestimate me, John Watson. I did attend regular driving lessons. The instructor was a fierce and opinionated woman who, to use your vocabulary, ‘didn’t put up with any of my shit’. Also, driving and learning a few traffic rules ~~are~~ is not actually difficult. I managed to pass my driving test and acquire my licence with the minimum lessons required.”

John gazes at him with that strange expression Sherlock has come to interpret as ‘fond’. “I’m sure you did. Phew,” he gazes over his shoulder again, but apparently the last animals have vanished. Ahead, a glare of headlights announces a car coming in their direction. “Anyway, good driving. Ready to get going again? Bloody hell, where has my phone gone?”

Sherlock nods, switching on the overhead light to aid John as he searches the foot space. When he comes up holding the phone, Sherlock starts the engine again and switches off the light. “Phone okay?”

“Yes. Still no signal, though. Shouldn’t we have reached Hay already?”

“It’s another five miles, and then a short distance to the village of Cusop where Mummy has arranged accommodation for us.”

“Another friend of hers, like the lady who brought us the case – if case it is? I’m still not entirely sure about that.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Neither am I. It sounded interesting enough. A five, maybe. With what just happened with the animals, I’ll lift it to seven. No, we’re going to stay at a B&B my parents have frequented several times when they attended Hay Festival. I suppose they’re friendly with the owners by now.”

“Never been to Hay Festival,” muses John, “and only once to Hay back when I was studying. A few friends and I rented a car and drove up to North Wales to climb Snowdon. We stopped at Hay, officially to look for books, but rather because one of the chaps had heard that in one of the alternative establishments here you could buy weed cheaply.” He huffs softly at the memory. “First and only time I ever tried that stuff. Gave me a headache and made me sick.”

“I have never tried it,” says Sherlock as he steers the car back onto the road.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Tried everything else, have you?”

“Nope. Just cocaine, and a little heroin to counteract the manic highs. And nicotine and caffeine, of course. Apart from that one memorable time during your stag night – and a failed experiment at age twelve – I’ve never even been drunk. At school and University, I was never popular and part of the In-crowd who engaged in raucous parties involving numerous recreational drugs.”

John nods thoughtfully. “I only tried weed and cigarettes and didn’t like either. And alcohol, of course. Too much of that, actually,” he adds darkly.

Sherlock knows that like his own struggle with sobriety, John has his, and it’s ongoing. He didn’t touch any alcoholic drinks over New Year’s, and even before he has been cutting back severely. Sherlock is proud of him, even though John’s addiction was never as bad as his own, he knows his friend is making an effort for Rosie – and for Sherlock, too. “You’ve been doing well,” he says encouragingly.

John’s face lights up. “So have you. Didn’t even smoke a secret one with Mycroft, did you?”

“He only offered gum.”

John laughs brightly. “Yeah, bet he did.”

**– <o>–**

They fall silent until John alerts Sherlock to take a left turn in the village of Clyro. Shortly afterwards, they cross the river Wye in its deep bed bordered by dark, wind-swept trees, and drive into a festively lit and decorated Hay-on-Wye. Sherlock is mildly surprised by how small the town is. His parents’ accounts of the world-famous annual literary festival taking place here made him imagine it to be larger. But it looks to be no more than a few score houses occupying a hill overlooking the river, with the ruins of a medieval castle in their midst. Most buildings they pass appear to be either bookshops, vegan restaurants or shops catering to an alternative or mildly gentrified crowd.

“Cosy,” comments John, summing up his thoughts. “Bit posher than I remember from the 1990s,” he adds with a grin.

“London money, probably,” muses Sherlock. “One of the people affected by what has been happening here since Christmas is from the city.”

“You think the locals want to get rid of them and have therefore been sabotaging his and his fiancée’s businesses – and damaged their cars and stuff? Hereford Police seemed to think he trashed his car on his own, and that his row with his fiancée was a simple domestic. They didn’t seem to take things too seriously.”

“Yes, because they’ve been understaffed over the holiday period and don’t have the people-power to investigate a few vanished sheep and horses and some entitled moron who crashed his car because he was drunk.”

John gazes at Sherlock in surprise. “Not because they’re idiots?”

Sherlock laughs softly. “Oh no, they’re idiots, too, of course. Because certainly, more lies behind what has been occurring here lately than mere coincidences and a strain of bad luck. Mummy’s friend thinks so, and I agree. I hope the rain hasn’t washed away all traces, but we’ll see tomorrow when it’s light again. I want to talk to the farmer whose sheep vanished and then miraculously turned up again in places where they shouldn’t have managed to get to, same goes for the horse-breeder girlfriend and the property investor from London. Hopefully, our landlord and landlady will be able to shed some light on how locals interpret what has been going on. Mummy indicated that they’re well connected. I hope her friend Barbara will be free this evening to meet with us.”

“Over dinner, hopefully. I’m bloody hungry.”

“So am I.”

“Really?”

“Really. All this incessant eating at my parents’ house has made me soft.”

John laughs. “Did you well, though. You look really—” he interrupts himself. Sherlock catches a glimpse of him licking his lips while avoiding looking at Sherlock. “Healthy,” John says at length.

**– <o>–**

As they leave the town of Hay proper, John shakes his head with a grin when they pass a sign welcoming them back into England, after having crossed into Wales some ten miles before reaching Hay. “So, Hay’s in Wales, and we’re in Blighty again, even though Cusop belongs to Hay? Interesting. Guess this was a much contested area in the past.”

“Yes. Offa’s Dyke, the old border-wall between the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia and the Romano-Celtic one of Powys, runs just over there.”

“I remember it from history lessons at school. Always liked that part about the Celts and Anglo-Saxons and Vikings and all that. Hope we’ll get a chance to see it.”

“Probably. If you really fancy a hike on muddy paths in this kind of weather.”

“Well, unlike a certain Consulting Detective who insisted on his posh attire, _I_ brought proper foot- and outerwear.”

“My Belstaff _is_ proper outerwear,” protests Sherlock.

John chuckles. “Yeah, your coat perhaps, but your shoes ... not so much. I understand why you’re wearing your suit today, though.”

“Enlighten me.” Even though he makes his voice sound a little gruff, as always, Sherlock is secretly enjoying their banter.

“Because you wanted to make an impression on Hereford Police and hence needed your armour. I’m glad you let me pack some jeans and a jumper for you.”

 _Ah yes,_ thinks Sherlock with a faint smile, _the jeans._ He does own a few pairs, mostly for disguise purposes. But he brought one to his parents for when they were going to be out and about with Rosie. John’s reaction to him wearing the dark blue denim was ... interesting. He _liked_ them, definitely, judging from his not very subtle staring whenever he thought Sherlock didn’t notice. Oh yes, John Watson liked them _a lot._ And probably, hopefully, their contents as well. Sherlock determines to put them on again tomorrow to further his observations.

“Thanks. Did you pack the charger for my laptop, too?”

John sighs. “Of course. And the one for your phone. And your fancy razor. Didn’t bring your shampoo, though. You’ll have to make do with mine or use what they offer at the B&B. Oh, I think we’re there.”

Their accommodation is a Victorian guesthouse situated in a secluded close not far from Cusop village church with views towards Hay and the Brecon Beacons, surrounded by a few houses, fields and hedges and overlooking Dulas Brook, a tributary of the river Wye, which constitutes the border with Wales. Sherlock parks the car in front of the red brick house with its white gables and, thankfully, rather minimalistic Christmas decorations in the shape of a few strings of fairy-lights.

The owners of the place are an elderly couple about a decade younger than Sherlock’s parents. They introduce themselves as Miranda and Bob Tanner ( _she an ardent walker and dog enthusiast who used to breed terriers, member of the local hiking club, likes_ After Eight _; he a retired naval officer from a Welsh mining family, also enjoys walking as well as amateur archaeology, draws maps of local landmarks in his spare time)_ and welcome Sherlock and John warmly. The house is what John would probably call ‘cosy’, the decor much in the vein of Sherlock’s parents’ cottage. Sherlock understands why they returned here several times.

“Welcome, and a happy new year,” says Miranda. “Violet called ahead to arrange everything. I’ll show you to your room right away. Barbara Rawlings will be over later and have dinner with us – you’re welcome to stay as well.”

Sherlock exchanges a glance with John, who shrugs and smiles. “Sounds good, thank you,” says John, stepping past the couple, his rucksack and a small overnight bag in hands. “We were going to contact Dr. Rawlings, anyway, because she was the person to alert us to ... what has been happening here lately.”

The B&B-owners nod gravely. “I don’t know when she contacted you,” says Bob, “but there have been a number of strange occurrences ever since Christmas – basically every night.”

“We’ve just had an odd encounter with local wildlife on our way here,” says John. “Almost hit some of them when they chased across the road.”

“Oh yes, wildlife accidents are common round here,” nods Miranda. “One really has to really drive carefully, especially in the twilight hours and at night. Anyway, I hope you will be comfortable here. Follow me.”

**– <o>–**

“It’s a double,” observes John with his unfailing penchant for stating the obvious. The room with its flowery wallpaper and understated, tasteful furnishings has indeed one double bed. Miranda has left them to ‘freshen up and rest a little until Barbara arrives’. Sherlock’s first thought at seeing the layout of the room and the lack of a second bed is a not entirely ironic ‘thank you, Mummy’. He had looked up the B&B online. They offer a twin room, too, which is unoccupied at the moment as they are the only guests. But after a certain, both humiliating and oddly freeing conversation with Father – who of course blabbed to Mummy – during which Sherlock admitted his feelings for John and his frustration about John’s reluctance to fully commit to him despite his obvious affection for Sherlock, of course, _of course,_ interfering busybody Violet Marguerite Holmes née Vernet had to try her hand at matchmaking. Sherlock is caught between resenting her for it and hoping she will succeed.

He watches John closely, trying to detect signs of worry or discomfort. But John’s expression remains fiendishly difficult to read. “Problem?” Sherlock therefore asks while hanging his coat and scarf on a hook on the back of the door, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “If you mind this,” he adds, “I’m sure other arrangements could be made. There is no indication of their other two guestrooms being occupied at the moment.”

John doesn’t turn to him immediately, gazing at the bed on which he has deposited the bag. “It’s fine. It’s got two duvets, so there’s no danger of either of us ending up without one during the night. And I know you don’t snore, or at least not much.”

“I might be working, anyway,” says Sherlock, nodding towards the table and the rather comfortable looking armchair, and silently vowing that he _will_ join John in bed at some point during the night, if only to lie next to him and watch him. “It depends on what Barbara and our hosts tell us over dinner. I have an inkling that they know more about these unusual events than Hereford Police, who seemed eager to get rid of us.”

John laughs softly. “Well, you were a bit ... impatient with them. One could call it uncivil, too.”

“Because they were withholding information.”

“What would you do if you were a police officer and some bloke came to your station demanding detailed information about cases? Not everybody has heard about the great Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective yet. And honestly, I thought the desk sergeant handled it well, as she didn’t take any of your ...” he waves a hand, grins.

“What?” demands Sherlock.

“Well, the way you are sometimes.”

“Which way?”

“The pompous I-know-everything-best-and-you-mere-mortals-are-idiots way. Anyway, they did prove cooperative in the end.”

“Thanks to your skills at diplomacy.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, my skills at diplomacy,” he repeats sarcastically.

“Don’t sell yourself short, John. You do have them. More than I do, obviously. That’s why we’re such a good team. I blast in and make demands, and you calm ruffled feathers and bruised egos and make people actually like me – or at least the romanticised version of me you’ve created for your blog. Do you need the bathroom?”

“All yours.”

**– <o>–**

Mummy’s old friend Dr. Barbara Rawlings, a former lecturer of mathematics at Cardiff University, runs a bookshop and small publishing house in Hay and is involved in the organisation of Hay Festival as well as a number of local charities. She is a large woman dressed in colourful scarves and sustainable hemp garments, her short, originally white hair dyed bright ginger with Henna, the faint smell of stable clinging to her indicating that she dabbles in animal husbandry ( _cattle?),_ the state of her fingers and the beds of her fingernails show recent operation of a small printing press _(oil-based colours ... gravure printing ... etching?)._ Sherlock’s impression of her formed during their initial conversation over the phone of a self-confident, charismatic, somewhat cheeky and outspoken woman is quickly confirmed.

She, John and Sherlock are sitting in the B&B’s dining room. The Tanners have gone all-out with their meal, a proper roast with all the trimmings. Despite a substantial breakfast back at his parents’ house and a pastry and coffee in Hereford, Sherlock digs in again. After all, John seems to appreciate it. The food is good – all sourced locally and organically, their hosts ensure them, the beef having been produced at the farm Barbara runs with the help of a friend.

“Despite so many people turning vegetarian or vegan, there’s quite a market round here now for organically and ethically produced meat,” explains Barbara. “As well as other sustainably produced goods.”

“Yes, we noted the shops and restaurants while driving through the town,” says Sherlock. “But in our conversation a few days ago, you mentioned that not everybody supports these schemes – and that apparently, some of the very people eschewing sustainability and community values have been the ones affected by ... accidents lately.”

“Yes, that’s right, Sherlock. Since we spoke on New Year’s Day more things have happened. Let me see if I can get them all together in the right order – I have made notes on my laptop back home but forgot to bring it. I’ll email them to you later, if you want.”

“Thank you. Could you reconstruct what has happened from memory, preferably in greater detail than what you mentioned over the phone? We learned some things at Hereford Police station earlier today, but they weren’t as cooperative as I should have liked. Therefore, I need as full an account as possible.”

Barbara sips from her water. “Well, let me see ... the first incident happened late on Christmas Day. We had heavy rains in the Brecon Beacons, if I remember correctly. Several small rivers flooded their banks, and a small mudslide damaged several cars parked at a mansion near Hay where a party was taking place. Nothing unusual, of course. There had been an amber weather warning, after all. But interestingly, only the mostly expensive vehicles were affected – some substantially. All sports cars or four-by-fours. The more modest cars of the serving staff were left undamaged.”

“Any indication of foul play?” asks John. “Somebody engineered the mud slide, perhaps?”

“Well, the owner of the mansion isn’t popular around here, at least not in the more alternative and sustainably-minded community, but as far as I know, the mudslide had entirely natural causes. And had this been the only occurrence of unusual things, nobody would have batted an eye. But the following night, again during inclement weather, all sheep of a local Welsh farmer by the name of Alun Gruffudd vanished. Alun is a strong promoter of Brexit who has clashed with some of the locals over politics and the way he treats his animals. Also, there have been instances of sheep harrying and livestock thefts in the past couple of years. According to what I heard, Gruffudd believed the sheep had indeed been stolen, despite having been either in his stables because of the weather or in paddocks close to his farm. None of the alarm systems and CCTV in place recorded anything unusual. The only thing he noticed was his dogs barking like mad for about an hour around midnight.”

Sherlock nods. “According to Hereford Police, where he filed a complaint, he believes ‘those fucking environmentalists and animal-cuddlers’ are behind it. They viewed the CCTV – or what there was of it, because there appears to have been a glitch or short black out. But didn’t his sheep, or at least some of them, turn up during the following days?”

Barbara smiles. Sherlock can tell that she doesn’t like the farmer and isn’t sorry for some posh people’s cars getting swamped by mud, either. “Yes, most of them were found again across the border, dispersed and covered in mud, looking as though they’d been hunted through rivers and hedges, but otherwise unhurt. The RSPCA is now looking into the matter, though, because several of the sheep showed signs of former mistreatment. Gruffudd is livid, but I can’t sympathise with him. Politics aside – how can he support Brexit when for years, his farm has been heavily subsidised by the EU? – I don’t believe people like him should be owning livestock. It’s about time the RSPCA looked into the matter.”

“Did anything else happen that night?” Sherlock wants to know. “The night of the 27th, I mean?”

“Not that I know of. But the following night, another expensive car was trashed.”

“The property investor’s?” enquires John. “We learned about this one in Hereford, too. He filed a complaint as well, because his Porsche Cayenne was found looking as though something heavy (and muddy) had run across it several times.”

Sherlock smirks at the way John pronounces ‘Porsche Cayenne’, his voice dripping with disdain and disapproval, knowing (and sharing) his friend’s opinions about these types of showy, wasteful cars and their owners.

Barbara laughs. “Yes, I actually saw the car. It looked as though Alun’s sheep and some heavier animals had stampeded over it a few times. The owner’s name is Remington, Charles Spencer Remington. He is a property investor from London who hopes to buy the ruins of Hay Castle and turn them into a hotel.”

John frowns at this. “Is that even possible? Isn’t the building listed or something?”

“It’s currently owned by the Hay Castle Trust. They’ve been wanting to renovate it and turn it into an arts and community centre for years.”

“But lack funds,” adds Miranda.

“The castle was severely damaged by fire, once in the 1930s and once in ’77,” explains Bob. “Despite renovations, it’s been unstable ever since. Some years ago, there was a pop-up restaurant inside during Hay Festival, but nothing permanent.”

“There are some in the community who’d actually welcome a large investment,” says Barbara. “Others think London money should stay as far away from Hay as possible, fearing more gentrification.”

“So this Remington bloke has enemies round here?” enquires John.

“He’s popular in some circles, and very unpopular in others. He has a local fiancée – one of Alun Gruffudd’s daughters.”

“Interesting,” muses Sherlock. “Didn’t you mention that she – or rather her horse-breeding business – was affected, too?”

Barbara nods. “Yes. During the night of the 29th, several dogs from the local (and officially now dispersed) hunt went missing after apparently running away chasing or being chased by something. The next morning, Gwendolen Gruffudd found that some of her horses had vanished from, as she said, locked stables. They, too, were mostly found again two and three days later, some having strayed as far as twenty miles, same as the dogs. All were unhurt but looked worse for wear, like the sheep. Some of the horses showed signs of having been ridden, or so she claimed. All their horseshoes had been removed. Interestingly, during the next night, when horses and dogs were still gone, the sheep were driven off again.”

“Somebody’s really got it in for these people, haven’t they?” muses John.

“Yes,” mutters Sherlock thoughtfully. “The police told us that Alun Gruffudd filed a complaint for theft again, and that this time, they actually sent people over to investigate. Again, CCTV had failed to record anything of significance. Manipulation hasn’t been ruled out, because during certain times, it had only recorded static. What they did find, however, were traces of dogs and horses near the stables. Not surprisingly, they missed the obvious.”

John smiles at him fondly. “Which you, of course, spotted right away looking at the evidence photos.”

Sherlock preens a little. John’s admiration always makes him feel warm and appreciated. “Well, seeing things others don’t is my job.”

“What did you see, then?” asks Barbara, smiling. _Probably, Mummy has warned her how to indulge me,_ thinks Sherlock.

“The hoofprints were those of unshod horses.”

He notices how the three locals exchange quick glances. “That’s odd,” muses Bob.

“A lot is odd about what’s been happening here,” says John. “Has anything like it ever occurred here before?”

Again, there’s this quick exchange of glances. Sherlock suspects that Barbara and their hosts know more than they let on. “Not on this scale,” says Miranda at length. “But at this time of year ...”

“With weather like this ...,” adds her husband.

“And certain tensions in the community ...,” continues Barbara.

“So you believe that some locals are trying to ... what? Scare these unpopular folks off?” asks John.

“Perhaps. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To find out.”

Sherlock has leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin and watching the round. “Hereford Police had another complaint on file, this time by neighbours of Remington and his fiancée.”

“Ah yes,” says Miranda. “They own a house in this village, down in Cusop Dingle, on ‘Millionaire’s Row’ as it’s known locally.”

“Mayfield,” adds Bob, his voice taking on an ominous tone.

John picks up on it. “Anything odd about the house?” he wants to know.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. The name sounds familiar ... _Hay-on-Wye ... Cusop Dingle ... Mayfield ... Mayfield ... arsenic ... poisoning ... murder ..._ He smiles. “Herbert Rowse Armstrong,” he declares, “the ‘Hay Poisoner’, only solicitor ever hanged for murder in England, poisoned his wife with arsenic and attempted to kill a professional competitor the same way, which led to his conviction. Interesting.”

“You certainly know your local history, Sherlock,” says Bob appreciatively. “Yes, that’s right. The house retains some notoriety, although it’s been renovated and modernised, and renamed, too. But perhaps the history of the property attracted Remington to it when it was up for sale a few years ago. What happened there for police to take an interest?”

“On New Year’s Eve, Remington and his fiancée were heard having a quarrel in the garden, loud enough to disturb the neighbours, who reported that both seemed inebriated. About two hours after midnight, when the neighbours returned from a walk up to the church and back, they found Remington and Gruffudd on their own doorstep, muddy and dirty as if they’d been dragged through their garden and bound together with strings of fairy-lights. They were slightly hypothermic but otherwise unharmed, but both of them completely out of it, babbling incoherently.”

“Oh yes, I heard about it,” puts in Miranda. “They called an ambulance because they thought Remington and Gruffudd might have alcohol poisoning or suffering hallucinations from some other drugs. They were raving about having been attacked by dogs and riders, and by wild boar rampaging through their garden. Bob and I went down there on New Year’s to have a look. And the garden really looked as though the boars had rootled there.”

“What did police make of it?” Barbara wants to know.

John shrugs. “They dismissed it as a domestic fuelled by alcohol.”

“They must have been back home the next day,” says Miranda, “because they had friends from London over – who promptly crashed their car on their drive back the following night. The road in the Dingle is single-track and sometimes gets flooded when there’s a lot of rain. There are no winter services, either.”

“Crashed?” asks John. “How?”

“No winter tyres,” says Bob dryly. “I saw that your car is equipped properly.”

“My parents’ car,” puts in Sherlock. “Father insisted.”

“And rightly so. We had considerable snowfall on New Year’s – it’s mostly gone now because of the recent rains. But the roads were slippery, and those posh folks with their posh cars ...” Bob shakes his head disapprovingly. “And according to what we heard, they’d been drinking, too.”

“Did anything happen last night?” enquires Sherlock.

“Yes,” replies Barbara. “The owners of the mansion – the one with the mudslide – apparently have had their drive and other parts of their property ransacked over night. None of the actual, natural gardens – those that were still left after extensive ‘landscaping’ – were damaged, only gravel-beds and other sealed surfaces. They were torn open, and stone statues were pushed over. CCTV also showed static for the time around midnight, which the owners – an American couple – attributed to a general issue with electricity, which, however, seems to only have affected their place and nobody else’s.”

“Have you seen the damage?” Sherlock wants to know.

“Yes, some of it. I even took photos, which I’m going to send you later.”

“Any indication of what caused the destruction?” asks John. “Wouldn’t one need heavy machinery to tear up a driveway?”

Barbara licks her lips, drinks from her water. “Your partner here can probably make more of the traces I photographed than I can, but ... well ... some of them look like hoof- and paw-prints again. Of unshod horses.”

John’s eyes flick to Sherlock. He frowns. He doesn’t – and Sherlock notices this with another wave of warmth – remark on the term ‘partner’, much less protest against it. _Because that’s what we are. Partners in crime-solving, in child-raising, in looking after one another. In all but one thing, really._

“So ...,” says John slowly, “you think that ... what? A horde of wild animals ransacks cars and properties at night? Like ... I don’t know ... the Wild Hunt?”

Sherlock doesn’t miss the small, well-guarded reactions of the other three. _They have been thinking just the same. Superstition, of course._

“Well,” says Miranda, “it’s that time of the year, isn’t it?” Her eyes are sparkling, Sherlock isn’t sure whether with mischief or ... something else. He, of course, had disregarded all hints at folklore and superstition ever since Barbara mentioned the strange accidents during their initial phone-call. For each incident, there is another, scientific and rational explanation: bad weather, natural disasters, human negligence – police found that in all instances of vanished livestock, stable doors and other fencing hadn’t been closed properly, or opened deliberately – or drug abuse. So far, only people detrimental to a close-knit community have been hit by misfortune, people with enemies or at least competitors. Sherlock gazes at Barbara and the Tanners. None of them looks as though they’d go out at night and destroy somebody’s car, trash their drive or harry some poor sheep. But they know more than they let on, of this he is certain.

“What time of the year?” John wants to know.

“According to superstition,” explains Sherlock, amending his words after a sharp glance from Barbara, “or rather, folklore – which, by the way, is not specific to this area – the nights between Christmas and Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, are those when uncanny things may happen. In parts of Southern Germany, Switzerland and Austria, these nights, called _Rauhnächte_ , are haunted by ghosts, demons and witches, and indeed the Wild Hunt. People in these parts celebrate the _Rauhnächte_ with rituals, masks, music and fires to ward off those spirits. I wasn’t aware of any such traditions around here, though.” He gazes expectantly at their hosts.

“There aren’t, really,” says Barbara. “Some folks around here celebrate winter solstice rather than Christmas, and others have taken up celebrating the Twelve Days of Christmas as it was done before festivities were abolished by Cromwell during the Civil War. There’s been a move lately to return to some of the older traditions and keep away from this ongoing commercialisation of Christmas. And there are some local legends in the Wye Valley associated with the Wild Hunt. I can send you some links when I get back home, and even bring you a couple of books tomorrow. I don’t think any of us here really believe in ghosts and spirits. On the other hand ... there certainly are people who hold deep grudges against those who have been affected by what’s happened round here lately. But I can’t see any of them doing anything that’s illegal and would ultimately hurt people, even if those were people they despised.”

“What has been the general reaction to the misfortunes in the community so far?” asks John.

“Well, there was some half-hearted commiseration, some offers of help, and much shrugging of shoulders and declarations of ‘bad luck’ and ‘shouldn’t of been driving in this weather’ or ‘shouldn’t of been drinking’. Basically, most folk think those who have been affected have somehow brought it upon themselves. But there have been accusations, too, and rifts between opposing parties have certainly deepened since Christmas.”

“And yet you asked me to come here and investigate,” muses Sherlock, gazing at Barbara keenly over his steepled hands. “Why? What’s in it for you?”

“What’s in it for me?” she replies, returning his gaze steadily. “Nothing. However, what has been happening here _is_ odd and unusual. I’m naturally curious – like you. I’d really like to know who or what is behind it. As much as we may loathe them, ultimately, we’re a town and a community that needs moneyed investors such as Remington and the Americans, and even people like Gruffudd. And we need the tourists, not just for a few days in May and June during the Festival. Damaged cars and properties aren’t very good promotion for a quaint little place like Hay that prides itself as the book capital of Great Britain and a sustainable, somewhat intellectual escape from the big bad world out there. What’s in it for me, perhaps, is a hope of de-escalation before name-calling and revenge fantasies turn into violence. Gruffudd has already mentioned that he’ll retaliate next time something happens to his sheep. Against whom is not entirely clear. I’d like to prevent that.”

“Very well,” says Sherlock, lowering his hands and reaching for his glass to take a sip. “Even though local squabbles aren’t usually something I concern myself with, I admit to being somewhat intrigued. I’m going to talk to a few people tomorrow. Please send me your notes and whatever information you have. The books, too. Some addresses and telephone numbers of those affected would be good, too. Hereford Police wouldn’t release them because of ‘data protection’.”

“Sure. Thanks for helping us, Sherlock and John. I’m going to head home now and get everything ready. Thanks for the lovely meal, Miranda, Bob.”

“You’re welcome, Barbara. Will you be getting back home all right? The wind has picked up again, but at least the rain seems to have stopped for now.”

“Yes, shouldn’t be a problem.” She hands a business card to Sherlock. “My mobile number and email.”

Sherlock takes the card. “Thank you.” Turning to John, he adds, nodding towards the large bay windows. “How about it, John? Care for a little stroll? It’s still fairly early.”

John nods. “Yes, I think some fresh air would be good before turning in. Cheers for the lovely meal and the warm welcome,” he thanks the Tanners.

Miranda smiles. “Glad you enjoyed it. Well, you’ve got your keys, but we’ll be up for a while still. What time would you like breakfast tomorrow?”

John looks at Sherlock, shrugs. “Nine-ish?” Sherlock nods.

“Okay. Have a good night and let us know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

**– <o>–**

After brief visits to their room to use the toilet and fetch their jacket, coat and scarves, the two men head outside. The wind is strong, rattling the rafters of the house and howling in the bare trees behind it. Sherlock quickly buttons his coat and flips up the collar in an attempt to keep out the wind, which nevertheless wreaks havoc with his hair. Next to him, John rams his hands into his pockets as together, they set out in the direction of the village church which looms a short walk away, surrounded by dark trees. No cars are about nor any other pedestrians.

They walk in silence until they reach the elaborate lychgate, announced from afar by the flapping of its wooden doors. The church is a squat stone building, set back amid gravestones and several large yew-trees. Candles glow in front of some of the graves, the flames flickering despite their protective casings. Passing through the lychgate, they step into the churchyard.

“Looking for anything in particular or are we just sight-seeing?” asks John.

“I need to think,” says Sherlock. It’s only partly true. Without further information, there isn’t much he can do about the case as he doesn’t want to fall into the trap of constructing theories without enough evidence. He feels John’s eyes on him. “Okay.” John doesn’t sound convinced. _He knows me better than I care to acknowledge most of the time._

“You don’t really believe these people have run foul of a bunch of ghostly riders, do you?”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh and fiddles with his scarf. The wind really is cold. Around them, candles flicker and the old trees creak and rustle. No wonder people get barmy at this time of year, even more so when old beliefs are stirred up and alcohol flows freely during festivities. “Of course not. Mere superstition, as I said.”

“So who’s behind all this? It’s pretty ... wild, isn’t it? Ingenious, too. And a bit ... don’t know. Cheeky.”

Sherlock turns to him. “You seem supportive of the miscreants, whoever they are.”

John shrugs and grins. “Well, according to what we learned, those who’ve been hit so far were all kinda arseholes, so I guess they deserved what they got.”

“And in your endearing idealism, you believe that after this lesson, they’ll recognise the error of their ways, amend their loathsome behaviour and become good and productive members of society.”

John laughs. “My ‘endearing idealism’? Who out of the two of us is the idealistic one, eh? The short-tempered, needlessly violent, PTSD suffering adrenaline addict, or the genius who instead of embarking on a glittering career like his Harrow or Cambridge peers chose to be a consulting detective and help people with their problems, often without receiving or accepting anything from them in return?”

“I don’t run a charity,” objects Sherlock half-heartedly. John is right, of course, but he doesn’t want to admit it. “I solve crimes.”

“Sure,” says John brightly. “Although this case here sound more like one for the Ghostbusters.”

“Who?”

John rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Sherlock? We watched the films together over Christmas. All three of them.”

Sherlock frowns at him. The title rings a faint bell. They _have_ watched a couple of films lately. Or rather, John watched. Sherlock spent most of the time in his mind palace or watching John. “Was it the one where the women ate pizza and an Australian actor with fake glasses played their secretary?”

John stares at him almost comically before shaking his head with a laugh. “Yes, Sherlock. It’s fascinating how your memory works, it really is. Funny you remember the actor, though. Fancied him, did you?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, John turns pale. He quickly raises his hands as if to wave away what he has just said. “I mean—”

“I don’t generally _fancy_ people, John,” returns Sherlock equally quickly. This is dangerous territory. From what he remembers, the actor _was_ attractive, objectively speaking, although Sherlock’s ‘taste’ in people, if indeed there is such a thing, is far more selective and erratic. He found out early on that models of attraction considered ‘normal’ and accepted by most people don’t work for him, particularly when it comes to sexual attraction. He hasn’t got a label for himself, nor does he feel he needs one. He does know, however, that were he forced to narrow it down, he rarely feels physical attraction, and when he does, it’s for men. He might be gay, then, or asexual, or both, if that’s possible. It’s not important, as there’s only John as a viable source of attraction and has been ever since they met. And what he feels for John is different from anything he has felt before, more potent and certainly more precious, and far more dangerous.

John huffs out a breath. “Yeah, I know. Married to your work and all that.” He sounds ... odd. Wary. And strangely ... disappointed? Sherlock isn’t sure, cursing once again his deficits at reading John and understanding the subtle meaning between his words.

Sherlock worries his lower lip with his teeth, thinking. He could simply agree with John, brush away the awkwardness of the situation with a joke. That’s what they usually do when they stray into dangerous territory, despite months of therapy and co-parenting and all that. That’s what they’d continue to do for the next couple of years, probably until John decides he’s fed up with a platonic relationship and needs sex and all the trappings of a traditional family life again, finds himself a suitable woman and leaves. Or ...

Sherlock draws a deep breath, opens his mouth, then jumps in shock when a loud crack sounds, followed by a wet crash. Next to him, John ducks and curses, his hand on Sherlock’s arm as if ready to pull him down with him. Not far away, the wind has torn a large branch from one of the bare trees which crashed onto a gravestone. Rain begins to splatter on them as the wind howls. The loose gate flaps loudly, sounding like gunshots or whip-lashes. The grave-lights flicker wildly and are snuffed out. Above them, for a brief moment, a crescent moon is revealed between racing clouds, casting the churchyard with its forbidding yews into eery, silvery light, to then be swallowed again and plunging them in darkness.

“Bloody hell,” gasps John. “You okay?”

Sherlock grabs his hand and pulls him up again. “Yes. Let’s get back before we’re drenched.”

John laughs roughly as they dash towards the lychgate. “Yeah, or before the Wild Hunt gets us.”

**– <o>–**

The Wild Hunt doesn’t get them. The rain, however, does. They’re both soaked by the time they’re back in their room. John shakes his head when he sees the state of Sherlock’s shoes.

“Perhaps we should buy you a pair of Wellies tomorrow. I’m sure there’s a posh pair available in one of the fancier shops in Hay.”

Sherlock glares at him while hanging his wet coat on a coat-hanger. “You could do with more water-resistant footwear, too. Your shoes are altogether wet as well.”

“Yes,” admits John from where he is taking off said shoes, inspecting them critically. “Hope they’ll dry again until tomorrow.” He stands and begins to take off his jumper. “'Luckily, we have plenty of towels. And are those bathrobes in the wardrobe?”

“Yes.” Sherlock throws one over while deftly catching the towel John throws towards him. They gaze at each other and grin. John grabs his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and heads into the ensuite. Sherlock dries himself and changes into pyjamas and a bathrobe, to then fetch his laptop and check his emails. As promised, Barbara has sent her notes and a couple of links to websites and online publications on folklore, as well as extensive information about who’s who in the local community. Sherlock settles in the armchair and begins to read.

Caught up in research, he only notices John again when he places a hand on his shoulder and holds a mug of tea under his nose. “You haven’t listened to a word I said, have you?” he complains gently.

“You’ve been talking?”

“Yes. I called your parents and enquired after Rosie. She’s in bed now, everything fine. I fear they’re spoiling her rotten. They send their regards to the Tanners and Barbara. Also, I wanted to know what the plan is for tomorrow, who we’re going to see first and so on.” He takes a sip of his own tea and sits down on the bed. “Do you think something is going to happen tonight?”

“In all likelihood, yes. The pattern of these occurrences is ... interesting. Whoever is behind it really seems to try to emulate the Wild Hunt. Therefore, unless they reach their goal early – whatever this is apart from creating havoc – the upheaval is going to continue at least until Twelfth Night.”

“What strikes me is that no demands have been made. You know, there were no claims of responsibility from anybody, no warnings, no indication of blackmail, nothing.”

“None we know of,” cautions Sherlock. “Unless there’s another incident tonight, I suggest we head to the farmer first thing tomorrow – probably after buying boots – then to the mansion, and last to Remington and his fiancée.”

“Okay.” John nods towards the laptop. “Found anything interesting? About these superstitions, I mean?”

“I’ve only just begun to look at what Barbara sent.”

“Meaning you’ll spend the rest of the night on your laptop?”

“Probably.”

John nods. Sherlock can’t see his expression clearly. “Right. I think I’ll read for a bit and then turn in. Try to get some sleep at some point, okay? And take the second duvet or you’ll freeze in your chair. The heating’s already been turned off for the night.”

 _Ah, that would account for my cold feet._ “Thank you,” says Sherlock when John gets up and heaps the blanket on him. Wrapping himself in the duvet, Sherlock drinks from his tea and returns to his reading.

**– <o>–**

Sherlock gets so caught up in researching the legend of King Hela, the leader of the local Wild Hunt and the probable origin of the figure of the Harlequin in folklore, that he doesn’t notice the passing of time, nor when John switches off his bedside lamp and goes to sleep. A dog barking wildly outside and the wind rattling the window distracts his attention from the screen. According to his watch, midnight has just passed. In the bed, John stirs. He appears to be dreaming. Sherlock watches him, hoping it’s not a nightmare. But John settles again with a sigh, pulling the duvet tighter around himself.

Sherlock is cold, too. The air in the room feels chilly. A faint draught seems to come from the window despite the double glazing. Sherlock stands, walks over and tries to catch a glimpse of the frightened dog. All is dark apart from the Christmas decorations in the neighbouring gardens, strings of fairy-lights swaying wildly in the branches of the small tree they have been fastened to. The moon is hidden. A sudden screech from outside makes Sherlock shiver and all the hairs on his arm stand up in alarm. _Must have been a branch scraping against a window,_ he reasons. The dog is still barking. The wind howls and screams in eery voices. Just when Sherlock steps closer to the window for a better view, there’s a loud crack. The fairy-lights go out, plunging the garden outside and the room into near darkness. Something heavy hits the window with a dull thump, making Sherlock jump back in shock. The dog falls silent.

Breathing quickly, Sherlock runs a trembling hand through his hair. His heart is beating wildly. He feels ... frightened. It’s a kind of fear he hasn’t felt since Dartmoor all those years ago. For a brief moment, he wonders whether he’s been drugged again. But before he can consider the feeling further, “Sherlock?” comes a sleepy voice from the bed. “What’s going on?”

Casting another quick glance out of the window where the storm seems to be gradually calming down again, Sherlock shakes himself. “Nothing. Stormy night. I’ll just go and brush my teeth and then join you, if you don’t mind.”

“’kay,” mutters John and drifts off again. When Sherlock returns from the ensuite, he is fast asleep again. Sherlock is grateful, as this will prevent further awkwardness. Carefully, he arranges his duvet on the vacant side and slips under it. John sighs and turns towards him. He looks peaceful and content, the lines of his face smoothed in repose. Sherlock lies watching him for a while, relaxing gradually and feeling sleep creep up to him. He battles it for a while, pretending to think about the case but in truth thinking about John and how strange it is to actually be sharing a bed with him. Eventually, sleep wins and carries him off.

[Illustration](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/sherlock_danger-nights01.jpg)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all those who’ve given the story a read so far, and of course to rifleman_s for betaing. The third and final chapter will hopefull be up on Sherlock’s birthday tomorrow – if I can finish the illustration in time.

Sherlock wakes to the sound of a text message – and the novel, shocking, unsettling, exciting, wonderful feeling of an arm slung over his torso, as well as huffs of warm breath fanning over his throat. Lying very still and trying to control his suddenly racing heart, he carefully turns his head. During the night, John has scooted over to his side of the bed, wormed his way under his duvet, and has thoroughly invaded Sherlock’s personal space, lying on his side and effectively cuddling Sherlock. It’s ... good. It’s shockingly intimate, particularly for Sherlock who isn’t used to physical closeness unless it’s hugs from Mrs. Hudson or, lately, Rosie. But he finds himself enjoying it more than he thought he would.

The trouble, however, is that John isn’t doing it deliberately. Probably, it was only his natural reaction to having a warm body in his reach again after a long dry spell. As soon as he wakes, awkwardness with abound, they’ll blush and avoid looking at each other, and of course not talk about it. They’ll get ready and have breakfast and set out, and no mention will be made about their sleeping arrangements. Sherlock is torn between terminating the wonderful coincidence _(shut up, Mycroft)_ and spare himself the potential fallout, or whether to lie still and indulge, to soak up every little detail about the weight and feel of John’s arm, the soft flexing of his fingers where they rest loosely but almost possessively over Sherlock’s ribs, about his scent, the tickle of his hair, and the feeling of being held and loved.

“Morning,” mutters John. Sherlock tenses, curses himself for it, and wills himself to relax again. He swallows. “Good morning.”

Slowly, and much to Sherlock’s regret, John disentangles himself. “Sorry about that,” he murmurs sleepily.

Sherlock swallows again, still not looking at him. “It’s fine.” He feels John’s eyes on him.

“Is it?”

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock steals a quick glance at his bedfellow who has propped up his head on his hand and is watching him thoughtfully, and, if Sherlock is reading his expression correctly, with a hint of amusement. He doesn’t seem embarrassed or put off by their former proximity. Instead he grins, actually grins, his eyes bright and not sleepy at all anymore.

“Good,” says John before slipping out of bed and heading off to the ensuite.

Sherlock gazes after him, confused. _Was that ... could it have been ... flirting? Did he actually wink at me of was that my mind playing tricks and showing me something I wanted to see._ He thinks about the possible implications, decides he needs more evidence. He catches himself smiling at the ceiling, though, and concludes that he approves of the general direction things with John appear to be developing. His phone pings again. Growling, he reaches for it, only to roll his eyes at the text message. The woman really is impossible.

_Good morning, Sherlock dear. Rosie is still sleeping. She’s been an angel yesterday. Hope you and John had a good night ;) :D_

**– <o>–**

As expected, no subsequent mention is made about the bed situation, much to Sherlock’s relief. He updates John on Rosie, but doesn’t mention the rest of his mother’s message, nor the suggestive smileys. They arrange to stay at least two more nights as Sherlock wants to remain in the area until Epiphany or even longer to see if anything untoward happens. Breakfast is good and plentiful. The Tanners also heard the dog, and report that some of their neighbours’ trees including their fairy-light decorations were damaged by the nightly storm. There appears to be no indication of foul play, and no odd traces have been found.

After breakfast, John and Sherlock set out towards Hay by car. The sun is shining off and on, bright beams touching the hills whenever fast-moving clouds allow them to break through. Torn off branches and stones washed from the banks litter the roads, and smears of mud from partial flooding make them slippery and dangerous. While John drives, Sherlock surveys the damage through the window. Apart from broken trees, some houses and front gardens appear to have sustained minor damage, too, mostly in the form of messed up Christmas ornaments and loosened roof-tiles. People are out and about cleaning pavements and generally tidying up and repairing what has been broken. On John’s insistence, and also because his Italian leather shoes aren’t entirely dry, Sherlock buys a pair of waterproof hiking boots and some Merino-wool socks. John’s shoes have fared better during the rain the previous night, but he, too, gets a pair of woollen socks.

With Sherlock’s feet warm and dry again after changing into the new socks and boots, they leave the town westwards. The river Wye, swollen from the rains, has flooded some adjacent meadows – some of which belong to Alun Gruffudd, their first destination. His farm lies beyond the river, less than a mile from Hay, sharing a gravel path with a campsite that now in winter lies deserted. The farm is large and well equipped with machinery, probably for haymaking. Apart from sheep, Gruffudd keeps geese and some beef cattle, too. Also, his daughter’s horses are stabled on his property.

When Sherlock and John arrive, to their surprise, they encounter several cars in the farmyard. One of them, a (formerly) white Porsche Cayenne, looks definitely worse for wear but seems functional and safe enough to be driven. More intriguing than the damaged car, however, is the ambulance parked next to it, having obviously arrived just before Sherlock and John.

“Another accident?” muses John, frowning at the vehicle.

“Looks like it. Park over there.”

As they exit the car, they are welcomed by two inquisitive but friendly Border Collie mixes and raised voices from the open door of the main farmhouse.

“I don’t know who called you, but I don’t need your help. I’m fine,” hollers a male voice with a Welsh accent. “Bugger off.”

“Alun, please, be reasonable,” pleads a female one. “Just let them check you for concussion. You were unconscious, and you’re frozen through.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sir, would you please let us help you? Your wife called us because she is worried about you.” One of the paramedics, obviously, trying to remain patient. “Please return inside and calm down.”

“I am bloody calm. Are you implying I’m not? That I’m crazy, maybe, that it’s all in my head? I saw them, I tell you. I saw them, and they chased me, all the way into the water.”

“Dad, please, sit down. And keep the blan—”

“Leave me, Gwen. It was the animal-huggers again. They’re trying to ruin us, I know it. But I’ll get them, I’ll get them.”

“Daddy—”

The door is pulled mostly closed by a female paramedic as she returns to the ambulance, cutting off the rest of the conversation.

John steps forward. “Good morning.”

The woman turns to them. “Hello. Are you family as well?”

“No, we’re investigating a potential case of theft and damaged property for Hereford Police.” Sherlock has to fight to hide an appreciative smile at the boldness of the lie and even more the confidence in John’s stance and voice. Oh, John has learned well from him in recent years. Paired with his natural authority, the effect is devastating.

“Mr. Gruffudd’s farm appears to have been the victim of a series of accidents lately – and he himself, too, judging from what we just heard. This is Mr. Holmes, and I’m Dr. Watson MD.”

“Mrs. Gruffudd called us because her husband was found lying in a flooded meadow near the river. He is uncooperative and possibly hallucinating and seems under the influence of either alcohol or some strong medication or drugs.”

“Yes, we heard him. Would it be possible to have a look at him? Here’s my NHS ID, in case you need to make sure that I really am a doctor.”

She shrugs and motions towards the door. “You’re welcome. My colleague is inside. I’ll join you again in a moment.”

**– <o>–**

Alun Gruffudd is a burly, grey-haired man in his mid-sixties _(used to play Rugby, had an accident a few years ago that left him with a long scar on his arm, probably from a hay-baler, choleric, signs of alcohol abuse but fairly recent, short-sighted, lost a beloved dog not long ago)._ As they enter with the paramedic who fetched some more equipment from the ambulance, they find him in the spacious, recently renovated kitchen swathed in blankets he struggles to cast off. A woman of similar age flutters around him, trying to calm him _(former eventing rider, hails from the South of England judging from her accent, probably Devon, medication on shelf indicates anxiety, tense relationship with husband)._ Next to her stands her daughter Gwendolen, a tall, slender woman in her early thirties wearing upmarket riding clothes _(left in a hurry this morning because make-up is sloppily applied, wears diamond stud earrings, though, and equally an expensive engagement ring, has slight cold, probably because of what happened to her and her fiancé some nights previously, retains faint bruises on wrists from being tied up with fairy-lights)._

“Want me to call the police, daddy?” she asks now, sounding angry and obviously fed up with the situation.

“They’re idiots,” growls Gruffudd, “and in league with the tree-huggers. Who are you?” he then demands, spotting John and Sherlock in the door.

“Dr. Watson,” replies John, standing tall and giving Gruffudd his best Captain Watson stare. Sherlock has to look away. It tends to do ... things to him. Instead, he lets his eyes flick over the Gruffudd family and their kitchen, trying to observe and deduce as much about them as possibly.

“I don’t need no fucking doctor.”

“Actually, sir, you do,” falls in the second paramedic. “Please, let me just—”

“Fuck off, you lot,” hisses Gruffudd.

The paramedics exchange a glance. “I think we’ve got this,” John tells them calmly. “What hypothermia he might have had should be under control with the blankets. I see you brought a thermal blanket, too, and I suggest he uses this in addition to his woollen ones. And I doubt he has a concussion, judging from how active he is. No signs of nausea or even a bad headache, or he wouldn’t be screaming around like this. But I’ll have to examine him more closely – if he lets me.”

“Okay. But let us know if things take a turn to the worse. We have another call nearby and would return here if required.”

“Sure. Thanks for coming.”

As the paramedics leave, albeit reluctantly, Gwendolen fixes Sherlock with a scowl. “You look familiar.”

He stands taller. “Sherlock Holmes,” he introduces himself. “My colleague and I have been alerted to your recent misfortunes and decided to investigate.”

“Holmes? The detective from London? Charlie has been talking about you. Apparently, you solved a case once for the bank he was working for back when he was starting out in finance, Shad Sanderson. We’re friends with Seb Wilkes, who I take it you went to Uni with.”

Sherlock’s lips narrow at the mention of her being friends with Sebastian Wilkes. “Small world,” he says curtly.

“So what are you doing here, then? Coming all this way to Hay for ... what? To investigate a few stolen horses and sheep?” She sounds highly suspicious.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, regarding her coldly while wondering what exactly her fiancé has told her about him. Coming from Sebastian Wilkes, nothing too appreciative, he reckons – although Seb did prove grateful and contrite in the end. “According to the complaints you, your fiancé and your parents filed with Hereford Police, not to mention the rather sorry state of your partner’s car and now your father, I’d say that more has happened here of late than a mere disappearance and potential theft of livestock.”

“Yes, you can bet on that, Mr. Detective,” rages her father, batting away John’s hand as he tries to inspect a lump on his head, while his wife tries to wrap the foil blanket around him. “We’ve been under attack from lunatics. They hate us and want us gone. They want to ruin us, the fuckers. But my family has been here for generations. The hippies and witches can go and fuck themselves. They’ve tried petitions, they’ve tried bullying campaigns, they’ve tried denigrating us with the authorities and those animal-protection idiots, and now they’re resorting to dark magic. I know it, I know it, I—”

“Shhh, Alun,” soothes his wife, pressing a mug of strong tea into his hands. “Calm down. You had a fall while inspecting the flooded meadows in the dark, that’s all. It was a stormy night and we’ve all be a bit on edge lately.”

Gruffudd waves away the tea, motioning instead towards a half-empty bottle of brandy standing on the kitchen island. His wife shakes her head, her mouth narrowing. “You’ve had enough of that. You need to lie down and rest. The past few days have been stress—”

“It’s the witches, I know it. They sent them. The hippies and the witches with their amulets and rituals. They prayed on the hills at solstice. They made them come and haunt us. I know it. I’ve seen them.” Gruffudd’s eyes take on a vacant, haunted expression. “Yes, I’ve seen them. Horses and dogs and deer and boars, all running, running, chasing me, crying out with their horrible voices. And the king, he was riding at the front. His eyes, his eyes were burning like coals.” He hides his head in his hands, trembling all over. His wife hugs him, whispering into his ears, trying to calm him. John kneels down in front of him and gently takes one of his hands, feeling his pulse, also talking to him in a low, soothing voice.

Gwendolen stands by, her expression tense, her skin pale under her make-up. Sherlock steps over to her. She jumps slightly at his approach. “You saw them, too, didn’t you?” says Sherlock quietly. “You and your fiancé, during New Year’s Eve. They came to you as well.”

She stirs, turns to him. Some of her composure returning, she jerks up her chin, sniffs haughtily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Dad’s clearly unwell and has had a bit too much to drink last night. He’ll be fine once he’s slept it off.”

Sherlock smiles thinly. “We’re here to help you, you know. But we can only do so if you’re honest with us. Three days ago, you and Charles Remington came to on your doorstep tied up with fairy-lights, both looking worse for wear. Who tied you up? Did you see anybody?”

Her eyes narrow. “No, we didn’t. There was nothing to see. We were ... we’d had a bit of drink as well. It was New Year’s Eve, after all. Too much, apparently, in retrospect. Some of our friends were staying over and had brought a shisha, and we smoked some stuff. Charlie and I had a bit of a quarrel, and I guess at some point our friends were fed up and restrained us.”

“Nice friends,” comments Sherlock dryly.

She snorts, leaning closer to him. “I’m not superstitious like my dad and many people round here,” she hisses. “He believes the Wild Hunt or something is on to him, conjured up by some of the alternative loonies in town. I wouldn’t put it beyond them to wish us ill, and to even do something about it. What happened with my horses and our car and our friends’ mansion was certainly their doing. But there are no ghosts or haunted horsemen involved here. Charlie’d tell you the same.”

“Where is he?”

“Back home, trying to get the insurance people to come and look at the damages we’ve suffered.”

“I imagine that you can expect a considerable sum should they accept your claims.”

“Are you suspecting us of insurance fraud?”

“At the moment, I’m not suspecting anybody of anything, Ms. Gruffudd. I need more information before I construct any theories. Your father appears to be calming down at last thanks to Dr. Watson’s and your mother’s care and reassurance. How about we sit down at the table and you give me a full account of your view and experience of recent events. I’d like to talk to Mr. Remington, too, as soon as he is available.”

She doesn’t trust him. She is also clever. After watching John and her mother help her father stand and escort him out of the room, probably to bring him to the bathroom or his bedroom, she walks over to the kitchen island and draws up a stool. Sherlock joins her, waiting for her to talk. She fiddles with her mobile phone for a moment, pretending to check for messages, before huffing exasperatedly and beginning to speak.

Her account matches Barbara’s in most points, although her view of her family’s recent bad luck is strongly tinted by suspicion and accusations against people and organisations in and around Hay.

“Has anything like this ever occurred before?” enquires Sherlock. “Threats, sabotage?”

“No. There has been animosity, hard words, too. But something like the past few days ... never.”

“Could you give me any names? Anybody who in your opinion should be questioned about what happened? Who has been the most forward and vocal in organising resistance against you?”

She hesitates, then writes down a few names. Staring at the list in her hands, she frowns, before handing it to Sherlock. He recognises a few local businesses and organisations such as the Hay Castle Trust. A few individuals are listed as well. He is not surprised to find Barbara Rawlings among them.

Gwendolen sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “The thing is ... I don’t really believe any of them would actually steal or hurt our animals, or even try to destroy our cars. They’re not ... evil people. Neither are we, of course. We’re just ... our goals in life and plans for this community don’t match.”

“Have you ever tried actually talking to each other?”

She scoffs. “What for? They’re set in their ways.”

“They’ll say the same of you, probably. I understand this is a small town which has undergone a number of changes lately. I’ve done a bit of research yesterday, trying to understand the current problems you’re facing, as well as the intentions and solutions the different fractions have to offer. Before putting blame where it might not belong and making matters worse, perhaps you should reach out to one another. New Year’s resolutions and everything.”

She gazes at him thoughtfully. “You’re different from what Sebastian told Charlie about you. Not as arrogant.”

Sherlock laughs humourlessly. “Yes, I bet. Sebastian Wilkes and I weren’t exactly friends back at Uni. And arrogance – neither mine nor yours – will help you in your current situation. I will talk to these people – in the case of Dr. Rawlings, I’ve already done that. She was the one to alert Dr. Watson and myself to this matter.”

Gwendolen looks surprised. “She contacted you? Why? Surely not out of concern for us.”

“Maybe you underestimate her. Or maybe she is simply concerned about the effects trashed cars and ransacked properties might have on tourism. Whatever her motivation for involving me, my advice is: talk to her and the others.”

She studies him, her eyes narrowed. At length, however, she nods. “I’ll think about it.”

**– <o>–**

John returns with Mrs. Gruffudd a short while later, having settled her husband into bed after persuading him to drink plenty of water and checking him over for injuries (only a few scratches and a bruised knee from falling, as well as a lump on his head where, according to John, he was probably hit by a falling or low-hanging branch, but no signs of concussion). Mrs. Gruffudd looks relieved and thanks John profusely. Sherlock feels pride stir in him, as is always the case when John’s competence as a doctor shows.

After accepting a cup of coffee from an insistent Mrs. Gruffudd and listening to her account of the recent nightly occurrences, Sherlock asks her for a tour of the stables and the place where her husband suffered his accident. Gwendolen excuses herself to check on her horses. Sherlock suspects she also wants to call her fiancé and warn him of the impending visit. As they set out with Mrs. Gruffudd after she has put on a jacket and a pair of Wellingtons, she sighs. “Alun’s only been like this recently. What with the drinking and everything.”

“What do you think has brought it on?” asks John. “Financial difficulties?”

She makes a vague gesture. “We’ve been doing well in recent years. But there have been setbacks. And now with this worry about Brexit—”

“Which you voted for,” puts in Sherlock.

She sighs again. “Yes, which we voted for, not really knowing what to expect. But now there are people calling for Welsh independence, like they do over in Scotland. How would that work here, so close to the border? We have land near Cusop that’s in England, while we live in Wales. It’s all so messed up. If we had to vote now, I’d do so differently. And Alun ... he’s beginning to see our error, too, and is worried about it. Sheep farming is heavily subsidised, and once we’re out, we’ll lose all that support. And then on top of that come those RSPCA people and now these weird things are happening ...” She wrings her hands. “It’s not how we were expecting to begin the new year.”

“Well, consider switching to organic farming,” suggests John, “and I daresay that at least the RSPCA will be off your back then, if you do it well, and you may also get support both from the government as well as the local community. According to what I’ve heard, organic meat is in high demand.”

She huffs. “I’ve already thought about it, but Alun is reluctant. It’s so much additional paperwork, he says. But yes, I think it’s where the future lies, too.”

“Do you have any suspicions who might be behind this?” John wants to know.

She shakes her head. “Some people in town don’t like us, but I can’t see them driving off our sheep or damaging people’s cars. Those quarrels we’ve had in the past have all been ... civil. Right, here’s where we stable the horses.”

Neither the stables nor the paddock or the water-logged meadows where Alun Gruffudd came to in the morning after getting knocked out during his nightly expedition show anything above what Sherlock has already gleaned from the police reports. What traces or footprints there might have been were mostly destroyed by the rain and additional flooding, as well as the usual farm activities.

In the riverside meadow, he and John search for footprints other than Gruffudd’s, but find only his as well a number of animal traces.

“Something _was_ here last night,” muses Sherlock while snapping photographs of the muddy ground. “These hoofprints are much fresher than the rest. Horses ... this one looks like a large dog’s ... and these cloven ones could be either from sheep or goats. And the ground over there looks as though something has dug there.”

“Wild boar, perhaps?” suggests John. “They can wreak a lot of damage on parks and gardens – or fields. And after almost running into a pack of them yesterday, we know they’re out and about in these parts.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock thoughtfully, surveying the grounds. Something in all of this doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense – or rather, it doesn’t as long as one leaves the most obvious explanation out of one’s considerations. _But how could this be? It’s a folktale. Mere superstition. And for real persons to re-enact the Wild Hunt to scare or intimidate their competitors ... how could that even be done? It’d be a massive undertaking, and it wouldn’t stay secret for long. It would require extensive communication and organisation and the cooperation of many._

John’s voice interrupts his musings. “Are we done here? Only it looks as though more rain’s coming, and I’d rather stay dry for now.”

**– <o>–**

Back in the car, “So, how did the chat with the daughter go? Been civil?” enquires John.

Sherlock smiles thinly. “As much as I could muster.”

“Well, you didn’t make her cry, so you must have been, although she looked a bit pissed off when she left.”

“She’s a pretentious, entitled, selfish woman. I bet her fiancé is even worse. That said, she is also clever and appears to truly care about her parents. She may see reason eventually.”

“Reason?”

“Yes, and begin to cooperate with the rest of the local community. Somehow, that’s what this seems to be all about. At the moment, there are lots of accusations flying around from both sides, and there is little trust. But somehow ...”

“What? You don’t really believe that there really is some ... don’t know ... ghostly brigade coming out at night to make these silly folks come to their senses and behave, do you?”

“No, I don’t believe it. But given what evidence we have got so far, I can’t entirely rule it out as a possibility.”

John laughs softly as he ignites the engine. “Well, I guess we’ve had weird cases in the past, so why not a bunch of ghost-riders for a change? Are we going to meet the Americans now?”

“Yes. Unless you require lunch first.”

“I’m fine. The breakfast was so filling.”

**– <o>–**

When they arrive at the mansion, a formerly Georgian manor refashioned ruthlessly into an eclectic mix of architectural styles, it turns out that its owners are not at home. According to the gardener, a Mr. Llewellyn _(early forties, part of family originally hails from India, has a young child, keeps bees as his pastime – oh, interesting)_ , who is overseeing the reconstruction of the drive and the landscaped stone and gravel monstrosity supposedly meant to resemble a garden, they left for London the previous day to escape the noise and dirt of the repairs. Explaining their purpose, Sherlock and John are allowed to survey the damage, most of which has already been mitigated by the team’s work.

“Something good’s come out of it,” says Mr. Llewellyn with a grin, indicating the garden. “They’ve decided they want more plants again instead of all those stones.”

“Ecological conscience stirring?”

Llewellyn shakes his head and laughs. “Not in these people. It’s money, fair and simple. I told them that keeping these stone- and gravel-beds pristine and nice looking would require two more gardeners on a regular basis. Can’t do it all myself, what with the lawns and everything to see to as well and clipping all the hedges and topiaries. These stones and the gravel have to be cleaned regularly, otherwise algae populate it. They even need replacing every few years. And you have to weed almost daily among the stones, unless you use poison, which is forbidden round here because it endangers the ground and surface water, not to mention insects and other animals. All this work just can’t be done by one person.” His eyes are twinkling. “Therefore, I’m glad that they went with my suggestion to introduce some perennials among the stones, something to flower in each season.”

Sherlock studies him, smiles thinly. The man knows more than he is letting on. “Isn’t there supposed to be a protective fleece or tarpaulin under the gravel beds to prevent weeds from growing?” he enquires.

“Oh yes,” says Llewellyn. “But you see, most seeds are airborne in some form or another, and plants will find even the smallest bit of humus or topsoil to grow in.”

“Particularly if they have help, right?”

Llewellyn holds his keen, searching gaze steadily. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock grins. “Oh, I’m sure you do. Seed bombs, really? Anyway, I suppose your bees will be delighted about the perennials. Thank you for letting us have a look around. Here is my number. Let us know if you encounter anything unusual, or if the houseowners return.”

John gazes at him expectedly when they’re walking back to their car. “What was that all about? How did you know about his bees? Or the seed bombs?”

“I saw some hives on the border of the property, he had beeswax stains on his shoes – probably from making candles – and he had the picture of _apis mellifera_ as his phone’s screensaver. As for the seed bombs, well, lucky guess. No wonder he is happy about the renovation of the gardens: his bees with finally have something to feed on.”

John grins, shaking his head. “You know, even after all those years of knowing you and what you do, and even knowing how you do it, you never cease to amaze me.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat. He ducks his head. “I don’t do it just to impress you, you know,” he mutters. “It comes naturally.”

John laughs brightly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not impressed, though. Every single time.” Playfully, he bumps his shoulder against Sherlock’s. “I mean, having met the rest of your family, I know you’re not singular. Your mother is a genius, and Mycroft is ... well ... Mycroft. And your dad is quite brilliant in his way, too. Emotional intelligence, that what he’s got, I think. He’s very easy to talk to.”

Sherlock turns to him, gazes at him questioningly. _John talked with Father? Well, they did spend quite a lot of time together in the garden and the shed and walking with Rosie. What did they talk about? Me? Us? Was it before or after my confession? Did Father tell him about it? What if John knows? Well, he would have to be an utter idiot not to have noticed something by now, and that he certainly isn’t. You haven’t exactly been subtle lately, blushing like a bloody teenager every time John compliments you. And it’s even worse when he accidentally touches you. And he has been paying you a lot of compliments lately, hasn’t he? More than usual. So what has John told Father? And what does it all mean? If John really likes you ‘that way’, why hasn’t he done anything about it yet, compliments aside?_

The ping of a text message interrupts Sherlock’s thoughts. Barbara has invited them to come to her shop for tea and to fetch the books she promised to lend Sherlock. They decide to head into town first and drive to Cusop Dingle later to talk to Charles Remington. Parking the car near Hay Castle, they take a stroll through town. John insists on visiting a few shops to look for a small gift for Rosie and Sherlock’s parents. Sherlock, for whom shopping usually comes not far after going to the dentist or barber in terms of dread, indulges him. They find a fluffy sheep toy and an Astrid Lindgren picture book about a fox and a gnome for Rosie, and some locally produced fudge and jams for Sherlock’s parents. There aren’t many people about, making the shopping experience tolerable.

Barbara’s bookshop is situated not far from the castle and next to a fair-trade teashop. They update her on the morning’s events and findings. Barbara seems very interested in their conversations with Mrs. Gruffudd and gardener Llewellyn. Sherlock pays particular attention to everything she doesn’t say in the hope of learning more about her stakes in all of this, but she remains as unsuspicious and genuinely worried about the peace and quiet in the community as before. Perusing her bookshelves and finding many publications that interest him, among them three about the Hay Poisoner, Sherlock loses somewhat track of time until John comes to fetch him to come next door and have tea and some vegan carrot cake.

“Your parents and Rosie send their regards. I just called them. Your mum really is a bit cheeky, isn’t she?”

Sherlock feels as if somebody has poured ice down the back of his shirt. “What makes you think so?” he asks warily, recalling her text from this morning.

But John only smiles mysteriously and doesn’t answer. Sherlock glares at him over the rim of his teacup, before sighing inwardly and busying himself with his cake.

**– <o>–**

They arrive at Remington’s house in the wooded valley of Dulas Brook with the sun – free of clouds for a few minutes just before it’s about to set – gilding the gables of the Victorian mansion and glinting on the windows of the recently added conservatory. A man in his late thirties is just emerging from a garage to the right of the property where a sports car Sherlock doesn’t recognise immediately (it looks like an older model) is parked. The man, even though he wears casual clothing which he apparently considers appropriate for the outdoors _(designer jeans, tweed cap, tailored down vest, leather ankle boots)_ his whole appearance screams city-boy and money. His Swiss special edition watch alone costs more than Sherlock’s parents’ car is worth. He obviously works out and owns a sunbed. His tan, however, doesn’t quite disguise a certain pallid touch to his skin, nor does it hide the dark shadows under his eyes. He looks stressed, anxious and downright hostile and suspicious when John steers the Holmesian Vauxhall into his drive. Sherlock spots no signs of Remington’s other car and concludes that Gwendolen hasn’t returned yet.

Remington stands with his arms crossed in front of his chest as they exit the car and walk up the drive. Sherlock notices how John walks a few steps in front of him, his shoulders back and head held tall, puffing out his chest, making himself more physically imposing. He allows himself a small grin. John appears to have filed Remington directly into what he calls his ‘arsehole drawer’ and is bringing forth his best Captain Watson impersonation. Sherlock flicks up the collar of his coat and walks taller as well. _Oh, this is going to be good._

“Gwen has already warned me that you were going to show up here,” Remington greets them. “What do you want?”

John casts a quick glance at Sherlock, then jerks up his chin and sniffs. “Well, originally we were here to try and help you,” he says with that special brand of calm politeness that screams confrontation _(and yes, there is the sniff and the balled fist as well)_ , “but if you’d rather like us to leave and probably get another visit by whoever has caused your troubles these past few nights you’re welcome. You know who we are and what we do, but of course it’s totally up to you involve us.”

Remington glares at him, obviously considering a sharp retort, but eventually, his tense stance relaxes and he uncrosses his arms. “Okay then, have a look around. Gwen told me you’ve already spoken with the police and some other people. For me, the case is pretty clear. There are persons in this town who dislike what I do and how I earn my money. They have been trying to sabotage my business for years now, ever since I started buying and renovating properties around here. I never thought they’d lower themselves to conducting actual sabotage, though. But obviously, that’s the case now.”

“What makes you so sure they are behind what happened to you?” enquires Sherlock.

Remington snorts. “You’ve seen our car, right? It’s a wonder it’s still functional. And look around here, will you? That’s not just storm-damage. Those were Christmas decorations over there,” he angrily points at a tangle of fairy-lights, the unhappy remains of a reindeer and sleigh made of wire, and what looks like a deflated snowman, “and this here was a statue come all the way from Italy. Our lawn at the back of the house looks as though Gwen’s father has ploughed it with his tractor.”

“Could perhaps someone have driven there?” suggests Sherlock. “The ground is very wet. Even a light vehicle would leave deep tracks.”

“The tracks are inconclusive,” scoffs Remington. “You’re welcome to have a look. It’s just a big mucky swamp now because of the rain.”

“What about your friends? Your fiancée mentioned you weren’t alone when most of the destruction happened on New Year’s Eve, but that you had friends over. Didn’t they notice anything?”

Remington winds himself a little. “We’d all been celebrating,” he admits reluctantly. “Neither of us was ... entirely sober that night. Actually, we were all pretty pissed.”

“And stoned,” adds Sherlock, which earns him another glare.

“Yes, okay, and stoned, too. So who the hell knows what happened? Perhaps our friends were trying to be funny and tied up Gwen and I—”

“Me.”

“What?”

“Gwen and me. It’s the object of the sentence, therefore it’s incorrect to use nominative case.”

Remington stares. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in challenge while next to him, John is fighting hard not to grin. Sherlock feels the corners of his mouth twitch as well.

“Yes, Gwen and _me,_ fine,” growls Remington. “I think they tied us up for a lark.”

“Lovely friends you’ve got there.”

Remington sniffs. “Well, did you know they crashed their car the following night? Wildlife accident, apparently. Said that suddenly, there were all those boars and deer and other critters on the road and they couldn’t stop and swerved and hit a hedge. Car’s trashed. They’re lucky that they themselves were unhurt but for the shock they suffered. Gwen’s father has been raving about some superstition bullshit, saying the Wild Hunt or something was out and about to get us. That’s ludicrous, of course. I’d say they should rather revive the local hunt to control these wild animals, but of course the bloody vegans in town are against it and worked hard to ban fox-hunting in these parts.”

“Well, your fiancée seemed ready to at least consider talking to the other parties in town to reinstate peace.”

Remington makes an angry, impatient gesture. “Gwen is from here. She got a lot of flack for getting involved with me, you know. Fraternising with the enemy, that kind of bullshit. Without me – the ‘enemy’ – and my gift for investment, a number of buildings in town would be in ruins now. But did I receive any thanks? Nope. ’Course not, because I’m not ‘green’ enough or something.” He waves a hand. “There’s no talking to these people.”

“Have you tried?”

“Of course I’ve tried. But they’re all stuck in the Middle-Ages here, or Woodstock. Whatever. Anyway, have a look around if you have to. Seb Wilkes said you helped him when someone broke into his bank some years ago, so I guess you’re not totally useless.” He casts a hard glance at the darkening sky. A fine drizzle has started to come down again. “I’ll head back inside. This fucking rain pisses me off.”

With that, he stalks off and vanishes into the house, shutting the front door with a _bang._

John watches his retreat, shaking his head. “Nice chap,” he comments dryly.

“Indeed. I have an inkling he’ll get another visit tonight.”

John casts a glance round the darkening garden. “You think so? Why him, then, and none of the others?”

“Because he hasn’t learned his lesson yet. The Gruffudds are beginning to see sense. The Americans have fled and their ingenious gardener is trying to put things right. Remington’s fiancée is clever enough to understand that they’re going to have to swallow their pride and start talking – really talking – to people. But Charlie here ... a hopeless case. For now. There are still two more _Rauhnächte_ ahead.”

John nods thoughtfully. “What do you propose, then? Stakeout here, tonight?”

“Yep. Usually, these ‘hauntings’ take place around midnight. We’ll have a quick look around the garden while it’s still light, then head back to our accommodation. The Tanners offered to make us dinner again. Unless you prefer to head back into town for food, I’d suggest we stay there, eat with them, rest up a bit, then head out at around 10:30 or 11:00 at night. It’s close enough to walk down here from our B&B.”

John nods, rubbing his hands and looking both excited and slightly apprehensive. “Sounds good.”

**– <o>–**

Then rain has ceased – for now – but the wind has picked up again by the time they make their way down to Cusop Dingle again. Sherlock noticed that John packed his gun. Both are equipped with strong torches and are wearing an extra jumper as insulation against the cold under their coat and jacket. The single-track road is deserted. Only here and there, lights blink in the stately houses lining the road, the lit windows obscured by swaying trees. Water gurgles alongside the road or trickles down the banks. Now and again, the chasing clouds are torn up and the moon casts an eerie light on the dark woodlands with their ivy-clad trees and thick undergrowth of evergreens.

Even though next to Sherlock, John is walking briskly, shining his torch on the branch-strewn, pot-holed tarmac, navigating them around mud and puddles, Sherlock can tell that he is nervous. Every rustle in the dark, every snap of a branch makes the torch-beam twitch and leap there, but apart from a surprised fox and what might have been a pine marten glaring at them from one of the trees, they don’t encounter any living things.

The front of The Mantles (formerly Mayfield), Remington’s house, lies dark and still. He and his fiancée appear to be home, though, because the Porsche stands in the drive, and a faint, indirect light shines from the conservatory. From their previous inspection of the grounds, Sherlock knows that the living and dining room are in the back of the house overlooking the rear garden. In all likelihood, the inhabitants are there at the moment. He and John take up position near the garage with a good view of the front of the house and the conservatory, their torches switched off for the time being. Sherlock checks his watch. It’s 11:15.

“Think he’ll come out again tonight?” asks John in a low voice. Sherlock is keenly aware of him standing rather close, close enough so that he can feel his breath waft over his cheek. He closes his eyes for a moment, draws a deep breath and exhales again.

“Yes. Listen.”

Over the sigh of the wind, murmuring voices can be heard inside the house, getting louder and more agitated. Eventually, the silhouettes of two people are visible in the conservatory, moving around, gesticulating. A door slams, then another, before a male figure steps outside, clearly visible in the light from the lamp over the door that apparently was triggered by a motion sensor.

“Another domestic?” whispers John.

Sherlock nods. “Apparently.”

“What’s he doing?” John steps even closer to be able to see past Sherlock. Sherlock inhales as deeply as he dares, enjoying the scent of John’s aftershave combined with a trace of sweat, his woollen jumper, and the outdoors. It’s a heady mix.

“Typing something on his phone. Now he’s trying to light a cigarette. He’s angry or otherwise agitated. His hands are shaking.”

A loud crack in the undergrowth to the other side of the house makes Remington drop his lighter and spin around quickly. A strong gust of wind makes the tall trees that surround the house bend and wave, their trunks rubbing against each other, creaking and groaning. The lamp over the door goes out. Despite Remington’s nervous movements as he searches for his lighter on the ground, it doesn’t switch on again.

Another crack sounds, followed by a rustling noise. The wind starts to howl, tearing at the trees. Twigs and even small branches begin to rain down on the drive. Sherlock presses himself more firmly against the wall of the garage, sheltering under the slightly overhanging roof as best he can. John is pressed against his side now, standing tense and still, expectant and ready to jump into action.

Remington has straightened up again and appears to be listening. He is tense, his stance radiating fear. The wind is roaring now, the rushing and rustling in the undergrowth rising to almost deafening intensity. Sherlock has to turn away from the direction of the wind as it feels strong enough to suck the breath out of him. Next to him, he hears John curse softly. Apparently, his torch isn’t working, as he can’t seem to switch it on again. Remington, too, seems to have worked himself into some sort of panic. He drops his phone, runs to the door and bangs against it, but it doesn’t open. The light remains dark. When another crack sounds, closer now – or was it a cry, or a whiplash? – followed by a rush and rumble as of a hill sliding and stones and rocks rolling, or many feet running, crying out, Remington spins around and runs in the other direction, away from the door, down the drive and onto the road.

And he is not alone. Sherlock can’t be certain because of the darkness, but something appears to be following him, chasing him. It’s large and dark, constantly changing form like a large cloud, rumbling and crashing and hollering, like a tall tree crashing to the ground and rolling down a hillside. The wind howls and hisses as with many hoarse, eery voices all crying together, there’s snapping and cracking, and deep, guttural sounds as of animals grunting and snorting.

A fear he has only felt once before, back in Dewer’s Hollow when he thought he was seeing a demon hound, takes hold of Sherlock. He has been terrified in other ways before, enough to make his blood run cold like ice through his veins: standing on the roof of Barts about to jump, or next to John at his wedding and having to watch, fearing that he might betray his true emotions every second now as he heart broke at the exchange of vows. Their farewell on the tarmac scared the shit out of him, too. But the fear that overcame him in Dewer’s Hollow was different still. True, it was drug-induced. He wasn’t thinking clearly then, his senses ensnared, his mind compromised. But he is completely sober now, and nevertheless he feels paralysed by a primal dread he can’t explain or rationalise away.

His torch forgotten, he shrinks back against the rough wall of the garage, ducking down. John is panting into his ear, his hand which has somehow found its way into Sherlock’s is grasping it so tightly it hurts. The pain grounds Sherlock, though, and he forces himself to lift his head and watch, trying to see what is chasing Remington down the road where his terrified cries are being swallowed by the storm.

“Sherlock?” whispers John, his voice small and hoarse and sounding totally unlike himself. He is frightened out of his wits, too, it seems.

Sherlock shakes himself, fear constricting his throat too tightly to answer.

They wait in the roaring, rushing, creaking darkness. Rain begins to splatter against the wall. Sherlock hunkers down, draws his coat up to shield John and him while John presses against him, shaking. Despite his own dread and terror, Sherlock feels a wave of protectiveness surge through him. Whatever is raging out there, it’s not going to get John Watson. Not as long as Sherlock is there to defend him. A dragon-slayer Mycroft had called him once. _Be it dragon or the Wild Hunt or the Devil itself, they will not get my John._

Sherlock doesn’t recall how long they stand huddled together, shaking with unexplained fear. But eventually, the storm dies down a little, and the infernal noises quieten to the normal rush of branches. John’s panting breaths calm as well as Sherlock’s own. While still holding on to one another, they straighten up and look around. The clouds have torn open and moonlight is flooding the front of the house. A large branch – almost half a tree – has crashed down where Remington had been standing.

John stirs next to Sherlock, disentangles himself from his side (to Sherlock’s deep regret), and fiddles with his torch. After several attempts, a wavering beam illuminates the scene of destruction.

“Bloody hell,” manages John. “Charlie’s been lucky, it seems.”

“At least where that tree is concerned. He ran off in a panic.”

“Shit. In this weather? We have to search for him.” _Brave, resourceful John. Still pale and trembling himself, nevertheless saving others is his priority._ Sherlock wants to take his dear, rain-wet face into both hands and kiss him. The desire surprises him. John gazes up at him in the bright light of the torch, and whatever he sees in Sherlock’s face causes his eyes to soften, the last vestiges of fear to vanish from his features, and a small, uncertain smile beginning to shine in his eyes. He reaches up and plucks something out of Sherlock’s wind-tousled curls.

“Twig,” he mutters, almost apologetically. He cocks his head. “You okay?”

Sherlock swallows, nods. Their faces are very close. “Yes. You?”

“Bit shaken, but otherwise fine.” John licks his lips, his eyes still glued to Sherlock’s. The torch dies again. The moment passes. John curses softly and shakes it, and it flickers back into life. In that moment the lamp over the front door comes on again, and Gwendolen steps out. She, too, looks shaken. She sees the fallen branch and cries out in shock, probably fearing to find her fiancé buried beneath it.

John steps forward and waves the torch. She jumps slightly, clutches her chest, but then relaxes when she recognises John and Sherlock. She doesn’t seem surprised to find them at her property in the middle of the night. Running towards them, “Have you seen Charlie?” she cries.

“Yes, he was outside before the tree fell but ran away down the road,” explains John. “Get inside again, you’ll be drenched.” Gwendolen is wearing neither coat nor jacket, nor proper outdoor shoes. John ushers her back towards the door, all confidence and control. Captain Watson is in charge now. Despite the cold wind tearing at his hair and coat, Sherlock is feeling warm all over. “There’s no use of us rushing out in this abysmal weather,” goes on John. “We have to be rational, and we’ll need help to find him. Go inside. We’ll have to make a few phone-calls.”

**– <o>–**

Remington’s posh living room becomes a centre of operations. They decide to wait for an hour for him to return and for the storm to hopefully calm down further. Should Charles not have returned on his own by then, they’re going to mobilise the neighbours. Sherlock phones the Tanners to inform them about the situation, and they promise to call some of their friends in town, some of whom own dogs that could be used for searching, or who serve with the local fire brigade. Despite her obvious fear for her fiancé’s physical and mental welfare – they did quarrel, and Gwendolen feels guilty about it – she remains admirably level-headed and functional, displaying considerable organisational skills.

By 1:35 am, half the inhabitants of Cusop Dingle and several helpers from Hay are out and about in their cars or on foot with torches and dogs, searching for Charles Remington. Feeling torn between an urge to venture out as well and hopefully find the man (and traces of whatever chased him) and a deep dread to step out into the stormy darkness again, Sherlock paces the living room until John steps up to him, wraps a blanket over his shoulders to still his incessant movements and presses a cup of steaming tea into his hands.

“Calm down, Sherlock,” he tells him under his breath. “You’re wearing a bloody groove into their posh carpet if you keep pacing like this. I know you itch to be out there to look for clues, and perhaps to try and the bloke himself, too. But leave the search to the locals, okay? You know I’m not easily frightened, but I tell you, I’ve had my fill of traipsing about in that kind of weather and facing ... whatever it was we saw. Drink the tea. There’s nothing we can do now but wait and keep her company until they find him – or at least until her friends and her sister arrive to stay with her.”

A phone-call at 3:54 ends their anxious vigil. Charlie has been found by people from the fire brigade, who discovered him hiding under a fallen tree in Dulas Brook, wet to the skin, shivering and babbling nonsense. Apart from scratches and bruises and possibly the beginnings of hypothermia, he seems all right. They call an ambulance regardless, mostly because of his mental state, and send Charlie to Hereford Hospital. Gwen’s sister and friends have arrived by then, too, and offer to drive her there as she’s in no state to operate a car. She thanks John and Sherlock profusely for staying with her and promises to update them on her fiancé’s status in the morning.

The two men return to their accommodation. Neither raises the subject of what they encountered. And of course, neither John nor Sherlock mention their hand-holding, nor the almost-kiss, as Sherlock has taken to calling the incident in his mind palace, where it is filed away in a newly constructed room in his John Wing.

The Tanners had joined the search-parties and return around the same time. John arranges a late breakfast before wishing them a good night. At their room, they quickly change into their pyjamas, hang up the still clammy clothes and take turns in the bathroom for a quick wash, use of the loo and brush of teeth. When Sherlock arrives back in the room, John is already abed, having stacked the two duvets on top of one another as the air in the room is cold. Seeing Sherlock approach the bed with what probably looks like hesitation or reluctance, he simply sighs and lifts the duvet.

“Get in,” he mutters, sounding knackered.

Sherlock switches off the light in the ensuite and crawls into bed, arranging himself stiffly on his back next to John, who is lying on his side. The sheets are cold. John huffs, sounding mildly exasperated. He scoots over, his arm snaking over Sherlock’s middle. “Okay?” enquires John in a low voice.

Sherlock swallows. It’s more than okay, actually. But it feels too monumental to simply agree. He can’t think of anything else to say, though.

“Yes,” he rasps.

John presses closer, one of his legs slipping between Sherlock’s. His feet are cold, as is the nose that brushes against Sherlock’s throat. “Didn’t catch cold, did you?”

Sherlock clears his throat, swallows again. “I don’t think so.”

John settles, now pressed flush against his side. He yawns. The arm round Sherlock’s middle tightens briefly and then relaxes again. “Good night, Sherlock,” mutters John. “We’ll talk tomorrow, ’kay?”

“Okay,” manages Sherlock.

He feels John smile against his shoulder. “Relax,” murmurs John, his voice already thick with sleep. Sherlock both admires and envies him for the ability to fall asleep so easily. His mind is still spinning with everything that happened today, but foremost the somewhat altered state of his relationship with John. _We’ll talk tomorrow ... Yes, because both of you are so great at talking that you’ve been avoiding it for years and years._

He thinks of the howling voices and the hollering, rushing sounds of ... something moving in the night. _Perhaps it’s no coincidence that we encountered the Wild Hunt as well tonight, if that’s what we heard and saw. According to folklore, it’s not really malevolent. But it haunts people who leave their house untidy, who have things to settle. And that applies to John and me as well._

Watching the sleeping man cuddled up to him in the faint light from the window, listening to John’s steady breaths, feeling his heartbeat against his side, Sherlock’s throat tightens. He wants this, he realises. He wants to spend his nights next to John, he wants this kind of intimacy, and perhaps even more, eventually. And John wants this, too, it seems. He invited him to join him in bed tonight. Not for sex or anything, just for this: closeness, affection, being together. John has extended a hand to him, has actually _shown_ his hand. It’s up to Sherlock now to do the same.

[Illustration](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/sherlock_danger-nights02.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks a lot for the warm reception this fic has got so far. Here’s the final chapter now. Once again a big thank you to rifleman_s for betaing.

When he wakes the next morning, to Sherlock’s great regret, John has already left the bed. Sherlock can hear him in the ensuite, talking on the phone. It’s almost 10:30. Sherlock feels warm and surprisingly well rested. He needs the toilet, though. Reluctantly, he gets up and knocks on the door of the bathroom. John opens it, smiles at him, and hands him the phone. “Your mum,” he tells him with a wink and heads into the room to get dressed, shutting the door to the ensuite.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “Morning, Mummy.”

“Good morning, dear. John has just told me that you’ve made some progress with the case. Everything is fine here. Rosie is a dear. We’re taking her to see the animals at the deer park today. Is your room and everything all right? You didn’t reply to my text message yesterday.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially, despite only Father being about – Sherlock can hear him humming in the background. “How are things going with John?”

Sherlock glares at his rumpled reflection in the mirror. His hair is a total mess. “Fine,” he says curtly.

“Have you kissed yet?”

“Mummy, honestly. I’m not a teenager. This isn’t your concern.”

“Well, you never brought any boys over when you _were_ a teenager. But you really ought to get a move on, dear. Neither John nor you are getting any younger, and honestly, watching you pine for one another and your awkward little hug thing on New Year’s Eve were really heart-breaking. He loves you, and you love him. It’s blatantly obvious. Tell him. Or better, grab him and snog him senseless. Both of you could do with a good snogging.”

“Have you told him these things as well?” enquires Sherlock archly.

“Of course not. He isn’t my son, is he? I take it you’re staying at Hay for another night?”

“We originally intended to, yes. It depends on how the case develops. But yes, we probably will.”

“Good. Make the most of it, you hear. Father and Rosie send their love.”

With that, she ends the call.

**– <o>–**

Of course the Talk (Sherlock believes the capitalisation is absolutely necessary) doesn’t happen. They do discuss last night’s events over breakfast – brunch, rather – at which they are joined by their hosts and, not entirely surprisingly, Barbara. Sherlock is still not sure what exactly they encountered down in Cusop Dingle. Part of him is tempted to rationalise the incident, blaming darkness, heightened emotions, the storm and the fallen tree and use them to explain both Remington’s panic as well as John’s and his own terror. The fact that both the lamp and John’s torch hadn’t worked just when they had been most needed could have been mere coincidences. Sherlock doesn’t expect to find any clear traces of a shadowy host this morning. Mayfield’s drive and front garden will be a mess of footprints and car tracks from the many helpers who flocked to the house last night. The heavy rain will have added to the obstruction. So again, nothing conclusive will be found to prove one theory or another.

_Perhaps proving whether the Wild Hunt exists isn’t the point. This is no murder, nor a burglary or any other clearly defined crime. In fact, it’s not really a crime at all. For everything that’s happened here, there are at least two explanations: a scientific, rational one, and one inspired by superstition, or perhaps the believe in a higher authority who punishes those who are selfish or hurt the environment, or who simply haven’t got their shit together – just as the stories about the Wild Hunt suggest. Ultimately, they’re cautionary tales, handed down over generations in many countries in Europe (and possibly elsewhere) to force people to be a little nicer to their neighbours, to have a bit more compassion, to treat others more favourably, to stop being selfish and arrogant and nasty. And as long as people believe in these stories, these tales have power and may even come to life during the darkest and strangest nights of the year, those nights that have ‘fallen out of time’ due to a misalignment of the lunar and the solar calendars – and yes, John, I know about those. I haven’t deleted everything to do with celestial bodies, you know._

Sherlock and John confirm that they intend to spend a third night at the Tanners’ B&B but decide to have dinner in town for a change. Most of the afternoon, which is clear and sunny for a change yet with a distinct drop in temperatures, is spent driving around checking on people. Gwendolen Gruffudd texts them around noon, asking them to come to her parents’ farm once more to talk to her father, and for John to assess him professionally. Gwendolen herself is going to join them later, after she has fetched her fiancé from Hereford Hospital where he spent the night but is due to be released soon.

Alun Gruffudd is out and about with his dogs when they reach the farm. He looks recovered apart from a slight cold and is uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful. He has obviously been informed about his future son-in-law’s recent mishap. According to his wife, he has been thinking a lot about what happened, and also talked to some of the people from town who helped look for Remington – some of whom, apparently, he was on bad terms with previously.

“That they would come out at night and help with the search ...,” he keeps repeating, shaking his head. “Never thought they’d do that for us.”

“Well,” says John, “hopefully it’s a sign for more peaceful and communicative times ahead. Next time one of them needs help, you know what to do.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I do. Thank you, Dr. Watson, and my apologies. I wasn’t ... well, yesterday.”

“Yes, but you’re on the mend. Listen to your wife more. I think she has some good ideas concerning the future of this farm and this community. And perhaps talk to the ‘tree-huggers’ as well. I bet many of them have very romantic notions about farming and no knowledge whatsoever about the hard work and the financial aspects of it. So teach them, and let them teach you. You’re all in this together, after all.”

**– <o>–**

Charles Remington seems similarly thoughtful, even contrite, when they meet him later at Mayfield. Unlike the farmer, he does look a little worse for wear: pale and shaky, his face and hands covered in small cuts and abrasions from where he ploughed through dense, thorny undergrowth in his panic. He, too, has a light cold, as well as a twisted ankle, which has him hobbling around on crutches, his foot bandaged to stabilise it. He, too, seems surprised, even touched by the fact that so many people spent half the night searching for him – and in such nasty, even dangerous weather.

“I thought they all hated me and would be happy if I was gone,” he says, fiddling with his coffee.

“I doubt anybody around here really hates you,” says Sherlock. “You’re simply on different sides and haven’t managed to bridge that gap yet because of a lack of communication. Talk to each other – and perhaps get a neutral party to arbitrate in the most contentious issues – and _voilá,_ an arrangement will be found to suit everybody.”

“Wish it was that easy,” mutters Remington, but looking at him, Sherlock believes he has taken his words to heart. He is also aware of John watching him with a slight, warm smile on his face. He looks ... proud, probably because Sherlock hasn’t antagonised the other man.

**– <o>–**

When dusk has fallen, they take their leave of the still somewhat flustered couple and head into Hay. The Tanners have suggested a restaurant run by their friends. Again, John parks their car near the castle, passing through the dark castle grounds to reach the restaurant which is situated near the marketplace. The wind has picked up again, sighing among the stones of the old ruin. Unlike the previous night, it has an icy, wintry feel to it, blowing from the North-East now instead of west. The air smells faintly of snow.

The restaurant is quite full when they arrive. It’s more upmarket and sophisticated than Sherlock expected, with candles on the tables, cotton serviettes and fancy wineglasses, and a six-course menu consisting mostly of local produce. They’re seated at a window overlooking one of the main streets in Hay. Fairy-lights are glinting outside. By the time they have reached the third course (wild mallard with roasted turnips and red kale), a thin layer of snow has fallen.

They chat amicably, about the case, the town, the research Sherlock has undertaken of local folklore. John is visibly enjoying the food (which is indeed rather good). He looks relaxed and warm and happy, to a degree Sherlock hasn’t seen in quite a while. Glimpses of it surfaced occasionally in recent months, but somehow, John never let it show so blatantly. Sherlock feels himself relax and smile more, too, as the evening progresses. Not that he has any real comparison, but the fancy setting, the atmosphere, the food, the bloody candle flickering between them feel almost like a date. He remembers the previous night, how easily John invited him into bed and curled up next to him, cuddling him as if they’ve been doing it for years now, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock feels his throat constrict with emotion once again. _John has shown his hand. Now it’s your turn. Or the Wild Hunt will haunt_ you _tonight because you’re a funk and an idiot._

Taking a big gulp from his sparkling water to fortify himself, very slowly and carefully, he slips his right foot forward under the table, cursing the bulky, thick-soled boots he’s wearing instead of his usual shoes. John’s breath hitches when Sherlock’s questing foot touches his leg, the fork onto which he has speared a bite of their cheesecake and strudel dessert is trembling slightly. Very deliberately, Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s and holds his gaze. John swallows, lowers the fork, to then raise it again and eat the bite of dessert, licking his lips afterwards, his eyes straying to Sherlock’s mouth. Something warm and fuzzy swoops through Sherlock’s stomach area. He feels dizzy, his heart beating furiously. Gingerly, he moves his foot again, and John smiles at him. Sherlock feels his face split into an equally warm and happy smile.

“Wanna stay here for coffee?” asks John, his voice low.

“We have tea and coffee-making facilities at our room,” observes Sherlock.

John grins. “So we have. Finish your dessert, then, and we can leave.”

**– <o>–**

Snow is swirling around them and settling on their hair, scarves and shoulders when they’re on their way back to their car. Walking next to each other, their hands brush ever so often, until Sherlock huffs exasperatedly and grabs John’s hand, intertwining their fingers. John laughs softly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand with his own.

“What about the Work?” he asks.

“What about it?”

“Won’t it become jealous?”

Sherlock turns to him. John is grinning, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Sherlock has to grin, too. “Well, we have what one might call an open relationship. I’m sure it’ll understand.”

John ducks his head. “Good.”

He stops, gazing at Sherlock steadily. “This really _is_ okay for you, right?”

“Yes. And you? What happened to ‘not gay’?”

John shrugs. “Guess I’m just not straight, either. But you are, aren’t you? Gay, I mean? I always wondered.”

Sherlock lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t care about labels. But it comes closest, I guess. I don’t usually feel attracted to people. Not to a degree that I want to hold hands or feel comfortable sharing a bed with them.”

“But last night was okay?”

“Yes. More than okay, actually. I wouldn’t mind a repeat. On a more ... regular basis.”

John’s smile is both shy and brilliant. “That’s ...,” he swallows. “Good. It’s more than good. Guess that solves the room situation at 221B, too, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock laughs. “It does. Rosie will get the room upstairs and you can sleep on the sofa.”

John’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, you ...,” he growls and lunges at Sherlock. Sherlock expects some retribution involving snow, enough of which has fallen by now to allow snowballs to be formed. He dodges to evade it, but John surprises him. Catching Sherlock by the lapels of his coat, he pulls him close, hesitates the briefest of moments, before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock freezes. He has the distinct feeling of something in his brain going _ping,_ before certain areas of said organ appear to simply shut down, or are being overruled by baser, more primal urges. Sherlock wants to catalogue every detail of John’s lips, the wealth of new information his proximity and the touch bring, but he can’t. He can’t, and it’s horrible and wonderful at the same time. There is pressure, a little moisture, softness, a hint of sweetness from the dessert, all computing somewhere in Sherlock’s mind among a dizzying rush of emotion. Sherlock blinks. _Shut your eyes, you idiot. And do something with your lips, or John will think you don’t enjoy this._

Indeed, John’s lips have detached from Sherlock’s. He is drawing back, slowly and reluctantly. Sherlock will have none of that. Pressing forward, he kisses back as best he knows. John makes a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan and draws him closer. The tip of John’s tongue touches his lower lip. Sherlock opens his mouth a fraction to let the questing tongue explore, and oh, isn’t this brilliant? He thinks he can feel the touch in the tips of his toes, as well as in other places not that far down.

None of the kisses he ever exchanged with Janine were like that – most certainly not, as he had avoided the tongue thing as best he could. Neither was that one kiss he exchanged with Victor back at Uni, when after weeks of working up the courage and thinking he’d read all the signs correctly, he kissed his friend (if friend he ever was), only to be called a freak and told to piss off. Now, Sherlock reciprocates carefully, encouraged by John’s obvious enjoyment of the activity, sliding his tongue against John’s and trying to copy what John has been doing. One of John’s hands wanders into his hair, while his own hands, gingerly and uncertainly, flutter to John’s shoulders and then, emboldened, down to his hips to hold him close.

Eventually, they part, both breathing hard. John’s eyes are shining. There are snowflakes in his hair and on his lashes as he beams at Sherlock.

“I’ll only sleep on the bloody sofa if you join me there.”

Sherlock laughs happily. “While the idea has some appeal, I think I should allow you to share my bed. It’s definitely more comfortable.”

John sobers up a little. “Speaking of bed ...,” he begins, cocking his head slightly to study Sherlock. “You know that I won’t ever make any demands that you feel you can’t or don’t want to act on, right? You said you rarely feel attraction to people, and I know that in general, you don’t like to be touched. I did have the impression that you enjoyed what we just did, but it doesn’t ever have to become more than that, you know. We can stop at kissing and sleeping together – as in actually sleeping, not as in sex – and I’ll be more than content.”

Sherlock regards him thoughtfully. “Would you _like_ to have sex, though?” he asks gravely.

John licks his lips, gazing up at him. His pupils are dilated, and it’s not only because of the relative darkness surrounding them. “Yes, I think so,” he admits. “But if you say it’s not for you, I’ll accept that. And I certainly won’t look elsewhere, that I can promise. I haven’t had any since before Rosie was born, and it’s fine. Or not _fine,_ but okay.”

Sherlock nods. “How about we try it? Then I can tell you if it’s for me or not.”

John stares at him. “You mean ... now?”

“Well, preferably not here in the snow. But I’d be amenable to some experimentation tonight. You do know that my practical knowledge and experience are very limited, don’t you? John?”

John is still staring at him, swallowing hard. “You really want this?”

“Yes. Perhaps not the full-on penetration thing, but something that involves more kissing and some mutual exploration and touching would be acceptable. Don’t you think?”

John laughs, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. He is nervous. So is Sherlock. But now that he has made up his mind, curiosity prevails. “I stopped thinking the moment I felt your tongue in my mouth. Jesus, Sherlock, there were times when I thought we’d never get there. Ever.”

Sherlock smiles warmly at him and reaches for his hand as they set in motion to finally return to their car. “Yes, it did take us a very long time.” He caresses John’s fingers with his own, being flooded by a wave of dizzy anticipation, apprehension about disappointing John, gratitude for finally knowing that his love for this remarkable man is returned in kind, and a heady, burning _want_ which can only be arousal.

**– <o>–**

Sherlock expects things to get a little awkward once they are alone in their room and have shed their scarves, shoes and jackets. Both need to use the toilet, and John has the brilliant idea of perhaps brushing their teeth before they engage in any hanky-panky. So they stand side my side in the small ensuite, brushing away, grinning at each other with tooth-pasty grins. Back in the bedroom, John switches off the light. Outside, enough snow has fallen to allow soft, grey light to filter into the room. Sherlock steps to John and reaches out to lightly touch his hair. John leans in and kisses him. Sherlock kisses back.

What follows is a slow, thorough, almost reverent exploration of one another with lips and hands. One by one, their remaining garments are shed until they are down to their underwear. They slip under the duvets and continue to kiss and touch and lick and suck. Sherlock is allowed to explore John’s scar, and John, making a sound almost like a sob, touches and then kisses Sherlock’s bullet scar on his chest, and runs his hands over the welts on his back repeatedly as if to smooth them away. Just when Sherlock thinks he can’t bear the intensity and intimacy of this tender, careful love-making any longer – despite enjoying it tremendously – John playfully pinches his side. Sherlock gasps and squirms, erupts into silly giggles. John falls in, and they cling together laughing and laughing until their bellies hurt and they are gasping for air. Laughing leads to kissing again, and more laughing, until kissing prevails, more urgently and passionately now.

At a point Sherlock doesn’t recall because his cognitive abilities are entirely compromised by his libido by then, his hand wanders into John’s pants. Initially hesitant, the sounds of enjoyment John makes encourage him to experiment and explore. In turn, John’s hand finds his way into Sherlock’s briefs to cup his genitals, the sensation almost short-circuiting Sherlock’s brain yet again. There is stroking and pulling, some embarrassing sounds – mostly made by Sherlock himself, he fears – and then hot wetness and John shaking in his arms and whispering his name over and over. Sherlock holds him tightly, tasting sweat as he sucks on his neck, until John has recovered enough to continue with his own ministrations and Sherlock falls apart, his face buried in John’s shoulder, his body feeling light and heavy and tingly and calm all at once.

Gradually, their racing heartbeats slow and their panting breaths calm until they lie pressed together in one another’s arms, John’s head on Sherlock’s shoulder and his hair tickling his chin and throat, his hand drawing idle patterns on Sherlock’s chest while Sherlock’s is doing the same on his back and shoulder.

“It’s a little bit early as midnight hasn’t passed yet,” murmurs John, raising his head slightly to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, “but happy birthday, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles. “Thank you,” he rumbles. He turns his head to be able to see John’s face. “I mean it. Thank you, for everything.”

“I have to thank you, for giving me another chance. God, I remember last year, that strange day when it was my turn to watch you and make sure you stayed away from the drugs. I remember the awkwardness, how I didn’t really want to stay and looked for an excuse to leave early. How I broke down in front of you and despite everything I’d done to you, and despite having been such an arse towards you, you tried to soothe and comfort me. I really don’t deserve you, you know.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “We’ve been over all this, John. It’s okay. We’re good. Despite everything, I want you in my life. And in my bed, apparently,” he adds with a grin, squeezing John’s shoulder. “And not because I’m trying to punish myself for something, or think I deserve to be hurt, but because you make me happy.”

John lets out a shaky breath. “I want you, too,” he says, his voice grave and earnest. “And you make me happy, too. And I love you, have loved you for years.”

Sherlock feels his throat constrict. He swallows. “Likewise,” he manages hoarsely.

As he leans in for another kiss, a gust of wind rattles the window. Both men raise their heads for a glimpse of the outside. Snow is swirling thickly. The wind whistles and murmurs. Something flaps a few times, and there is a rush as of something falling. For a moment, Sherlock is tempted to get up to gaze out of the window, or even put on some clothes and head outside to investigate, to look for footprints, to find evidence once and for all of whether some supernatural entity has been haunting this place, or whether it was just coincidence: tricks of the weather and tricks of the mind.

“Think the Wild Hunt will be out and about again tonight?” asks John, and the temptation dissolves like mist in sunlight. Some things aren’t meant to be fully investigated and understood, Sherlock knows. And he’s warm and comfortable and tired, his body still flooded with serotonin and oxytocin, and he has an equally warm and heavy John Watson in his arms. He’d be an utter moron to venture out now into the cold and wet and forgo the opportunity to spend these moments with the man he loves.

Sherlock shrugs and draws him closer. “Who knows? I doubt it will bother us, though. We’ve tidied up our house now, haven’t we?”

John laughs and burrows closer, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yep, that we have. Took us ages, but we’ve got our shit together now. Do you have any wishes for tomorrow?”

“Well, it’s Twelfth Night, so there must be cake. Apart from that, none. My dearest wish has already been granted.”

John nuzzles his neck. “Thank you, love.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I was referring to the book on apiology you gave me for Christmas, of course,” he teases.

John growls and playfully bites his ear. “You know what, I think I’ll reconsider moving in with you again.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock pouts. “Anything I can do to persuade you?”

John smirks at him, his eyes sparkling. “I have few ideas, yes,” he murmurs.

“Well then, I’m all ears.”

**– < The End >–**

[Illustration](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/sherlock_danger-nights03.jpg)

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**Author's Note:**

> You can find updates on all my other wip fics as well as new art projects at my tumblr and twitter (I’m khorazir on both), or my wordpress blog at khorazirart.


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